


[If It Ain't Your Love] I Want Blood From You

by mokuyoubi



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Identity Porn, M/M, Meet-Cute, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, of a sort, what do you call jealousy of your alter ego?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 15:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20260132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: Deadpool is hired by Harry Osborn to retrieve Peter Parker. But what seems like a simple job of rounding up an average college student is complicated by the fact the kid has insane luck at miraculously dodging Deadpool's attempts to kidnap him, and also, Spider-Man keeps showing up. Add to the fact that Osborn wasn't as clear about his intentions, and Deadpool starts to wonder if he should be going after Parker, or protecting him.No longer on hiatus!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valentinelissar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valentinelissar/gifts).

> This fic was written for the Puerto Rico auction (yes, I'm way behind the times!) for the prompt:  
Deadpool takes a commission to kill some random college kid named Peter Parker and has a difficult time of doing so because the kid's got incredible luck or Wade's having a bad month. But this kid's luck gotta run out sometime, ya know? In other news, Deadpool tries to woo/flirt with/hang out with Spiderman. A ton of hidden identity issues and trust issues. 
> 
> It borrows heavily on a lot of different aspects from different movie and comic canon, so it's easy for you, as a reader, to take whichever version you prefer of the characters and apply it to these ones. For myself, though a large portion of the plot is inspired from Amazing Spider-Man 2, I've still set it in MCU, although in a world where the Infinity War saga played out very differently. Maybe it's unrealistic, but this is my fantasy world, and so Tony and Nat aren't dead, and Steve didn't go back to live in the past like an absolute tool, and Peter was never outed by Mysterio/JJJ. I love Ryan and I love Tom, but feel free to imagine whoever you want in these roles!
> 
> Also, apparently brackets in my Spideypool fics are becoming a ~thing. Title comes from the [Empire's song "I Want Blood,"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RrjDyUKPbak) which is appropriate as hell for Spideypool in general, and this fic in particular.

“I don’t do kids,” Wade said, flicking the golden card across the table at his potential client.

[Except for Hitler.]

Wade held up a finger in addendum. “Except for that one time with Hitler.” Honestly, Weasel should have known better booking this job.

Osborn’s brow wrinkled in confusion and Wade waved him off. “You wouldn’t know him. Real piece of work that one, and even then I had to get my pal Cable to help me out. In fact, maybe I should give you his number. Because, point is: No. Kids.”

“He’s not a _kid_,” Osborn said, and whoa, buddy, the scorn in his voice was staggering. Like literally. Wade had to take a step back. Clearly there were some issues between him and this Peter Parker guy that ran deep. 

Osborn pasted a tight, insincere smile on his face. Between his pallor and the contrast to his fever-bright, pale blue eyes, it was an effectively creepy look. “If money is the issue, let me assure you that it’s not. I will pay whatever price you name. And if it’s some sort of moral quandary…” 

Here, he arched his brow and looked Wade up and down in a sort of way that probably should have been offensive, like there was no conceivable way Wade had any morals to begin with.

[[Clearly the man has done his due diligence.]]

“Then let me put those doubts to rest.” Osborn’s gaze shifted to a framed photo on his desk, the subject of which Wade couldn’t see from his position. His hand twitched, and he laid his other overtop of it, pressing it flat with enough force to turn the skin white. 

“You may know my father passed away a couple years ago. He spent decades searching for a cure, and the closest he ever came was through the research of one of his employees by the name of Doctor Richard Parker.”

Wade made a show of stifling a yawn. He was going to have to have a talk with Weasel about researching the boring backstory before passing a job onto him. “If you could get to a point, that’d be greaaaaat.”

“For whatever reason, rather than turning over his research, Doctor Parker took all his knowledge with him to his grave. At least, as far as my father knew. It wasn’t until last year that Peter found his father’s notes and finished his work. Now, I’m beginning to show the same symptoms as my father. It turns out this whole time, Peter’s blood held the key to my cure, and despite our friendship, despite my offers of financial remuneration, he refuses to help.”

“Yeah, okay, sure that’s all there is to it.” Osborn couldn’t see Wade’s eyes rolling, but he probably could have guessed anyway, from his tone of voice. “But fuck it. I can shake him up a little bit, put the fear of the Desert Eagle in ‘em.” Wade patted his holster. “Get him to give it up.”

Osborn’s eyes lit up with something more than gratitude. Sharper and meaner, that probably should have given Wade a moment’s pause, but after all, he was writing his own check here. “I just need you to bring him to me.”

“And I just need 50 mil in my bank account up front, and another 150 upon completion.”

“Consider it done. There is no price tag too high for the cure.”

*

True to his word, Osborn had the money in Wade’s bank account within the hour, with an extra fifty “to show my appreciation.”

[Holy shit, just like that.]

[[You fucking blew that one. Coulda asked triple.]]

[Think of all the IKEA you could get with that!]

Al was going to love it.

It was an obscene amount to ask for a job as simple as this one. A fucking college student. He’d honestly thrown the number out there expecting Osborne to bargain him down, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Still, Wade was gonna do his own research and recon. He’d learned the hard way, after one too many jobs for AIM, and Colossus’ unerringly disappointed face, not to simply trust what the client told you.

Peter Parker, born and bred New Yorker, had been raised by his aunt and uncle in Queens from the age of six, when his parents mysteriously disappeared into thin air, presumed dead. Top marks at Midtown High where he’d participated in a plethora of afterschool activities, securing the Stark Prize for Scholastic Excellence, and a full ride to Empire State University. 

Parker was the very picture of a stereotypical, nerdy, biochem major. Neatly combed hair, narrow frame swimming in a baggy sweater over a button down that seemed to hide a bit of pudge around the middle. He wore some truly ridiculous glasses, and his eyes barely strayed from the ubiquitous phone in his hand, earbuds firmly shoved in his ears. As far as targets went, this one was pretty damn vanilla.

The kid certainly had a lot on his plate, from a full course of classes, to an internship with Stark Industries, and a part-time job with the Daily Bugle. It was exhausting to even think about. Today, however, he was free from all three, and on his way to the Museum of Natural History.

[[What a fucking nerd.]]

“Hey, the museum is rad,” Wade protested, because it totally was. And not just because he had visions of stradling that blue whale and riding it like Ellie Sattler did with that t-rex vertebrae. The space part was cool, and so were the dinosaurs, not to mention the subway station mosaics…

[_We_ are the fucking nerds.]

Technically there was no reason for Wade to follow him inside. It wasn’t like he could snatch the kid right there. But he’d dressed in his civvies today, and, well. Like he was going to pass up the chance to do recon in the American Museum of Natural History. This was the best job ever.

Parker met up with a group of friends, among them a couple of surprisingly hot coeds. Squinting at Parker, Wade could almost get it. He was clearly smart af, which the ladies were always into. Maybe once you got past the obscenely hideous glasses, he wasn’t as unfortunate looking. 

[[Because your horror movie protagonist look leaves you _any_ room to talk…]]

Ouch, but true.

For a bunch of teenagers, they were surprisingly respectful of their surroundings, voices kept at a murmur, laughter stifled behind their hands. Parker kept holding open doors for people with strollers and old folks, and chased down a woman who’d left her phone on a bench through several rooms to give it back, instead of dropping it off with security. 

It was hard to believe that Parker, as mild and easy-going as he appeared, would intentionally withhold something that could save someone’s life. Even someone as creepy as Osborn.

[[Maybe if you did more than the most basic research on a target.]]

“Hey,” Wade muttered, indignant, and got the side-eye from a dude nearby. He quickly averted his gaze when he caught sight of Wade’s face, and Wade sneered at his back. 

His research was just fine. What Osborn had said scanned, as far as Wade could tell. Parker’s parents had worked for Oscorp before their disappearance, and there’d been plenty of sensational coverage of that. Apparently the elder Osborn wasn’t the only one hoping their research on genetics would be a miracle cure for a whole slew of diseases, and there were all kinds of conspiracy theories surrounding them.

Harry and Peter had attended school together as children, before the elder Osborn banished his son to boarding school in Europe. But they’d reunited at Midtown when Osborn returned to New York City in his senior year. Wade had found some photos of them together in an article about science fair winners, and at some math tournament. He’d also found a piece in their school paper about Oscorp and Stark fighting over Parker for intern, as a result of some paper he’d written. Must’ve stung for Osborn, having his friend choose Stark over his father.

It was plausible that someone as smart as Parker had finished his father’s work, and who knew? Maybe Stark had control over his findings as part of his contract as an intern. For all his philanthropy, and, well, heroism, Stark was still a capitalist at heart. Wade wouldn’t put it past him to keep a cure from Osborn until he’d sorted out the marketing angle.

Wade hadn’t planned on taking the kid today, but as the afternoon wore on and the museum was started to empty out, he reassessed. Parker’s friends began splitting off one by one for other engagements, and he was left alone...well, why not? 

The meteorite room was completely empty already, with only Parker lingering near some alien artifact left over from one of the attacks on New York. He was scribbling something in a notepad, apparently oblivious to the announcements over the intercom of the looming closure. It’d be so fucking easy to jab him with the tranq and slip out the side exit. Kid wouldn’t know what hit him.

Yellow was egging him on, too, quickest payday ever and he didn’t even have to kill anyone!

[[Not like that’s any hardship for you.]]

It was true. Wade loved his job.

Parker finally finished up what he was writing and wandered towards the next area. That way was a deadend, perfect for Wade’s purposes.

[[Seriously, have you fucking memorised the map for this place?]]

And the voices in his head could fuck right the fuck off, because of course he had. For strategic purposes, and definitely not because of the amount of time he’d spent here.

Parker turned the corner and Wade pushed off the display he’d been pretending to study and followed. He stepped into the hall of gems and minerals and Wade grabbed the syringe he’d brought along, and followed.

In this room the light was dimmer, with spotlights on the cases to show off the glimmer of the gemstones. Wade’s eyes darted across the room, scanning for Parker amongst the free standing displays, only to find it empty. A frown twisted Wade’s lips as he checked behind him, but no, there was no way Parker could have doubled back without him seeing. And there was no exit from the room.

“What the fuck?” he muttered under his breath, and stepped more fully into the room. He leaned to the side, checking behind a row of display cases, senses turned up to eleven. But there was nothing. No movement, no sound of breath, no one hiding in the dark nooks and crannies.

Where the hell had Parker gone?

Wade stormed down the length of the room to where a door marked for employees only sat with a card reader and a small red light. He tried the handle and found it stubbornly locked. For a moment, he weighed the possibility that Parker somehow had a key card, and considered kicking it in, before deciding against it. 

Whatever, he hadn’t planned on doing it today anyway.

So the museum had been a bit of a bust, except for the stuffed narwhal Wade’d got in the giftshop on the way out, now sitting in place of pride next to his unicorn. 

It was totally fine, he’d convinced himself, because he was trying to be inconspicuous.

[[Like you even know what that means.]]

“It means not having Captain American and Iron Douche up on my dick for attacking a kid in broad daylight in,” he adopted a grave tone that was a fair approximation of Stark’s whenever he showed up on the news practically daring bad guys to smash in his oily smile, "_their city_.’’

Sure, normally it might have been fun doing it out in the open, if only for the ensuing chaos. But most of his jobs took him outside of the city--hell, outside of the country--and if he was spotted kidnapping some harmless college kid in the middle of New York, it might draw the sort of attention from the sort of people he’d rather avoid. 

Particularly since this kid has Stark’s name tangentially attached to him. 

Despite what White thought, Wade had a broad vocabulary, and could even, on occasion, apply it to the situation at hand.

But whatever. There were opportunities galore. Grabbing Parker would be as easy as taking candy from a baby.

[Mmm, I want Milk Duds.]

Which was how Wade found himself sitting on the roof of the engineering building, empty yellow boxes littered around him. Most of Parker’s classes were in the late afternoon or early evening, which was perfect for Wade’s purposes. As the Molecular Genetics class let out after nine on a Wednesday night, this part of campus was pretty deserted.

Wade wiped some melted chocolate on his fingers off on his suit leg and grabbed the tranq gun from the ledge beside him. From his vantage point, he followed Peter from the science courtyard to a narrow, poorly lit passage leading towards the dorms. He levelled the barrel at the kid’s back, lined up the shot, took a breath, and pulled the trigger. Easiest payday ever.

A split second before the dart found its target, Parker’s foot caught on a raised edge of the sidewalk and he went sprawling over the ground with a crash audible even from the roof. The dart planted itself harmlessly in the bark of a tree. Wade pulled a face, but whatever. He’d brought an extra and hadn’t even forgotten it in Dopinder’s trunk.

Parker got up on all fours, scrambling to gather his bag and all the books that had spilled out, the pens and the papers. When his gaze fell on his phone, his face fell in dismay. Wade loaded the extra dart and adjusted the CO2 gauge before taking aim again as the kid was distracted with it. Parker had just risen to his feet, arms full of all his belongings, and started to walk towards the dorm entrance.

This time, the dart sailed over his head, when, like something out of a fucking Stooges routine, all the precariously balanced shit in Parker’s hands went flying, and he surged forward in a futile attempt to catch it.

Wade jumped to his feet in mingled annoyance and disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He threw the dart gun aside.

[[That’s what you get for trying the non-lethal route.]]

“I don’t _have_ to kill everyone,” Wade protested.

The silence from both White and Yellow was telling. Well, fuck them anyway. Down below, Parker shoved the last of his shit into his bag and swiped his card on the door lock. Wade hadn’t planned on breaking into his dorm room to take him, but sure. Why not? 

Maximum effort.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter was depressingly used to people trying to kill him, but that was usually under the guise of Spider-Man. Nobody cared about Peter Parker enough to go after him, let alone hire a pro. At least he’d thought so, right up til the second a familiar tingle went up his spine as he walked out of the bio building.

It was late enough that the campus was pretty deserted. Most students were already making their way to the bars. The evening classes were the best, usually low enrollment in an already small field of study. Not only did it give him plenty of time to discuss his ideas with the prof, it worked well with his extra-curricular activities. By scheduling afternoon and evening classes, he was able to split his mornings between Stark Industries and the Bugle, and his nights patrolling.

Tonight he was planning a quick run of the city, then back to his lab in Stark Tower. Keep the police scanner running in the background, of course, but these days between his course load and his legitimate work, there just wasn’t as much time for his personal research. He knew if he said something, Mister Stark would clear his work load for him, but the work he was doing there was as important, and besides, he tried to avoid asking for special treatment. He knew the other interns already hated him as it was.

There were times he wished his powers had come with the ability to never need to sleep again, but even without it, he still pushed himself as far as he could. Some nights he fell asleep in his lab in the early hours of the morning. He assumed it was the same for many of the other scientists, given the number of cots kept in offices, and the immaculately stocked showers in the locker rooms.

But all thoughts of a quiet night were cut short with a flash of red from the rooftop, and a split second later, his hearing picked up the puff of air from a dart gun. Just enough time to dive to the ground and send his things flying. No one ever had any trouble believing Peter Parker was a clumsy nerd. 

But oh, his phone. Peter felt an honest pang of regret at the sight of the screen, as he gathered his things. A gift from Mister Stark for graduation, on the pretext of keeping him better connected to the Avengers, now with a framework of spidering cracks. Well. He was going to have to learn to deal with it, because he wasn’t about to tell Mister Stark, and it wasn’t like he could afford another. 

Sighing in disappointment, Peter hauled himself to his feet. He fought the urge to dart a look around, lest it alert his would-be captor. He’d have to rely on his spidey sense for now, which once again flared into life just after he’d straightened up. Resignedly, he took another pratfall.

Peter was reminded of the other day at the museum, when the tingle had told him to disappear, and fast, and hadn’t been able to figure out why, but he’d listened anyway. Was it possible that had something to do with this? After the second shot barely missed, Peter wasn’t waiting around to see what came next. 

He scrambled upstairs, hearing picking up the sound of footsteps on the flagstone. Quickly, he grabbed his suit from its hiding place, and was out the window thirty seconds after he went through the front door, webbing to the building across the green and swinging to the rooftop.

His would-be attacker wasn’t too far behind. The guy was dressed in red and black, two swords strapped to his back and at least three guns that Peter could see on his person. He didn’t seem overly concerned with anyone noticing him shooting the card reader and kicking the door open. A moment later, the lights came on in Peter’s dorm room.

The merc rifled through his things, flipped through the contents of his closets, scattered his notes on genetic research all over the floor. He seemed to be talking to someone--it was hard to tell through the mask he wore, animated though it was, but the way he was flailing his hands about, and how the mask moved. Must’ve been a partner on an earpiece.

Shit. Who could he have pissed off enough to send a whole damn team after him? No one that knew he was Spider-Man would have any reason, and Mister Stark had made sure that Shield wasn’t keeping any records that had his identity on them. Their track record wasn’t the best for keeping secrets.

A large part of him wanted to swing in and handle this head on. Web the guy up, demand to know who he was and who he was working for. But maybe, just maybe, Peter had begun to learn something from his previous encounters about charging in headfirst. He wasn’t an Avenger, but he wasn’t alone, either. He would wait this out, do some research first.

After a couple hours hanging out in Peter’s room, the guy left the way he came. Peter watched him walking out the front door shouting, “I don’t know, maybe he got a booty call? Nerds need love, too, you know.” And, after a pause, “Oh fuck off. He got lucky tonight, we’ll get him tomorrow.”

Peter followed from a distance, leaping from roof to roof until he left campus, and then keeping high as he swung from one building to the next. Once he hit Amsterdam, the guy jumped in a waiting cab, which hopped on the 95 across the bridge to the Bronx. The further west they travelled, the shadier the neighbourhood, until the cab came to a stop at a truly decrepit warehouse-cum-bar. 

The plaque outside read, _Sister Margaret’s School For Wayward Girls._

*

Even as an honorary Avenger, there were plenty of times when Peter was kept out of the loop. Files he wasn’t technically supposed to have access to. Mister Stark _had_ to know he’d hacked into Shield’s files, but he’d never mentioned it before. Peter took that as tacit permission.

Searching Sister Margaret’s had quickly led him to his guy. There were a lot of mercs working from there, but only one who ran around in a red and black suit. Deadpool. That name rang a few bells on its own, but his extensive file filled in all the blanks.

Wade Wilson, 42 years of age. Ex-Special Forces for the US Army, deployed to Iraq and Somalia. The details of what he’d done there were mostly redacted. After being dishonorably discharged, he’d ended up at Sister Margaret’s, where he’d taken on mostly harmless, small time jobs, until he’d been recruited for Weapon X. Those files were even more heavily redacted than the military ones. 

The stuff that followed, though, when Wilson went back to his mercenary work, that was there in bloody detail. A trail of literally hundreds of bodies, all over the world. A lot of Hydra and AIM agents, for sure, but there’d been plenty of drug lords, sex traffickers, the odd pedophile or murderer. 

It begged the question yet again, why Peter? Aside from the confusion over who would hire him in the first place, tranq darts shot at mild-mannered college students definitely wasn’t his M.O.

He wasn’t going to get any answers as Peter. Strange, he was used to doing his undercover work out of the mask, but this time he’d need to hide behind Spider Man. Ugh, he’d lost all of last night to researching Deadpool, and now he was going to lose another night tracking him down and getting answers out of him. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate already.

It occurred to Peter, as he sat doodling in the margin of his notebook during his first class, that he could reach out to Mister Stark. But somehow, no matter how often Peter faced the bad guys on his own, no matter how many times he’d saved the day, Mister Stark had only gotten more protective, not less. If he knew Deadpool was after Peter, he might insist on moving him into the Avengers compound for his own safety or something ridiculous like that.

And, okay, part of Peter did think it would be pretty awesome. Going on the real missions, working with the team full time, not having to work parttime to keep himself fed, and fuck, the _labs!_ He’d get to play around with Mister Stark and Doctor Banner, and Shuri when she popped in. 

But the thing was, as much fun as those team missions were, when he was invited along, Peter would miss working more closely with the public. And as much as the world needed the Avengers for those missions, there were so many smaller, yet no less important crimes going on in the city. Being an independent contractor gave him freedom and anonymity the others didn’t have.

Plus Peter was really enjoying his classes and campus life. Maybe Mister Stark’s lesson about being responsible and focusing on self-improvement had been more effective than he’d realised at the time.

After his afternoon class, Peter had a break before his next one in the evening. At the time he’d scheduled, he had all these thoughts dancing in his head, of hanging out with Ned and Gwen at the student union. Running off campus for lunch with MJ. Napping once, ever. He’d been so naive.

In reality, Peter found himself rushing to the main branch of the library for the single copy of some ancient reference book Professor Leonard had recommended for his research. Seriously, what century were they living in that these things weren’t all scanned for access online? That was bad enough, but that there was only one copy was bordering on absurdity.

And oh, Peter had looked. Despite his thorough searches, there was nothing to be found online, nor in Mister Stark’s personal library. Which, he’d had to bring up at some point, because Mister Stark would see that as an affront and definitely secure a copy, whether he needed it not.

For now, it was off to the library. As old as it was, Peter wasn’t holding out a lot of hope, but Mister Leonard thought it could be useful, and who knew? If it did prove important, it wasn’t just for his grades. If this could help at all with his parent’s research, well...maybe someday he could find a way to help Harry and others like him, without the disastrous fallout from using his own blood.

The entire way there, his thoughts were occupied by Deadpool. Just considering the possibility that he’d somehow discovered Spider-Man’s secret identity was enough to make Peter’s heart pound harder. A guy like that, the lengths he’d go to for a job, didn’t seem like much would stop him from selling that information to the highest bidder.

But no, Deadpool, for all his apparent faults, didn’t seem stupid. He was good at what he did. Far too good. If he’d known Peter Parker was Spider-Man, he wouldn’t be playing around with tranq darts and hide and seek at the museum. Right?

He was torn about what to do next. Recon, or confront Deadpool directly? Ugh, the guy was super unpredictable, it was just about impossible to tell what he’d do in either situation. 

By the time he’d arrived at 41st he hadn’t come to any conclusion and had to refocus his attention on the task at hand. 

Somehow, despite living in New York his whole life, and passing by the place often enough, Peter had never actually been _inside_ the main library. The nerd inside him was distracted by the cool architecture and design elements, and sorta wished Mister Stark or Doctor Banner was around to torment with pop culture references. It still gave him a chuckle that they honestly thought he was oblivious about the movies he referenced, and not intentionally trolling them. None of the Avengers appreciated his humour.

Peter basically had to sign over his life to get the book in his hands, in the rare books section. He settled in with his laptop open to take notes as he began to pour over the book. As occupied as he was with other things, it was hard to get himself in the right frame of mind to focus on what was written there. It was interesting, but very dense, and the language was a little antiquated. 

Maybe a half-hour passed before he heard someone speaking way too loud for the library, and a librarian, speaking in a way that was both hushed and remonstrative, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I got a call from Roger Delacorte,” the man said. “Said Alice saw something in the Reading Room.” 

Peter couldn’t help but crack an appreciative smile at the joke--at least he wasn’t the only one thinking up awful Ghostbuster jokes--even as the librarian protested, “I don’t know any Alice.” He craned his neck towards the entrance to the rare books, and even before he saw the black and red suit, his senses tingled in warning.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Peter muttered under his breath. He was going to have to confront Deadpool sooner rather than later, but he hadn’t brought his suit with him, worried about his bag being searched by a librarian to make sure he wasn’t smuggling out books. 

Given that Deadpool had no compunction about firing off tranq darts in public, and, from his file, cared little about collateral damage, it was probably best to clear the place out. There was a fire alarm on the wall by the door, and with a resigned sigh at having to make another trip to the library next week, he got up. With a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, he pulled the lever. All around him people began expressing confusion, but slowly began to gather their things. 

Outside the room Peter heard Deadpool’s resounding curse, and scrambled to shove his things in his bag. If he went with the flow of traffic, he’d definitely run into Deadpool, and then he’d have no choice but fighting him off. Which would in turn, if not give away his identity entirely, at the very least make Deadpool suspicious. No, he needed his suit for this confrontation.

As Peter waited for the room to clear, he quickly scratched out a note and left it on the otherwise empty table. Keeping low to the ground, he watched Deadpool shoulder his way through the crowd. Unlike in the main rooms of the library, there weren’t a lot of hiding places. The entire upper balcony was open and exposed, and the only shelves in the room lined the walls. 

Just as Deadpool was about to enter, Peter leapt over the railing around the tables and behind a cart stacked in boxes. There was a line of them by the main desk, waiting for sorting, and Peter dropped down into a crouch, holding his breath.

“Peter Parker.” The way Deadpool said his name made a chill run through him. Playful and menacing at the same time. “Peter, Petey-boy,” Deadpool sing-songed, as he made his way further into the room. 

He strolled down the empty row between the tables, peeking underneath them as he went, Peter watching through a narrow space in the boxes. “What, it’s a fun name? Gotta love the alliteration. Peter Parker.” He really popped the plosives that time.

“Where the fuck else would he be?” Deadpool hissed after a moment, as he turned in a wide circle in the middle of the room, and ending pointed straight at where Peter hid. Peter ducked his head as Deadpool did a little skipping motion toward him. “Petey-pie!”

“Don’t worry,” he drawled, in the least reassuring tone ever. “You’ll barely feel a thing.”

Peter had to smack a hand over his mouth to keep from yelling out a suggestive comment in return. _Not in costume_, he reminded himself, _not the time for trading witty reparate with the bad guys_.

As Deadpool drew closer, Peter sidled further down the row of carts, reaching the end just in time to scurry over the check in desk as Deadpool rounded the corner.

“Huh.”

Peter took advantage of his momentary confusion to move around the far edge of the desk and flip up to the underside of the second tier. There was enough of a lip that it would hide him from view unless Deadpool was standing underneath him looking straight up. 

Deadpool made a sweep of the room and stopped in the middle, hands on his hips. “Exactly like a fucking cat!” he said in agreement to the unheard voice on the other end of his comm. “Except instead of lives it’s like nine conveniently well-timed exits.”

There was a pause, and then he snapped, “No, I don’t give a fuck what Domino says, luck is _not_ a superpower.” 

As he made a turn in the centre of the room, his gaze fell on the desk and the note Peter had left him. “That little mother fucker!” he said, tone almost delighted, and crushed the note in his fist. “You know, I was just doing it for the payday before, but now...now I’m going to enjoy this.”

The moment drew out, and Peter held his breath, but then Deadpool stalked out of the room. Peter waited several minutes before dropping down from his hiding place. He probably shouldn’t have left the note, but the smart ass in him couldn’t help it. Tonight, Peter needed to pay a visit to Sister Margaret’s, before this got any further out of hand.


	3. Chapter 3

Wade tugged his mask off as he flopped down at the bar and downed the shot Weasel placed before him without question. With a sidelong look at his face, Domino said, “Went that well, huh?”

“I’ve already wasted way more time than I should have on that little twerp. And two tranq darts,” he added, as an afterthought.

Weasel snorted and poured another shot. “200 mil will buy you a lotta new darts.”

“Yeah, well, I was _trying_ to be nice.” The twin looks from Domino and Weasel suggested they doubted such a thing was possible. “No more kid gloves. I’ll just choke him out next time.”

“Wait, you lost him?” Weasel asked. Domino made a squeaking sound of amusement, hand pressed to her lips to forstall the spilling of any alcohol.

“I didn’t lose him so much as he ended up in a place different from where I anticipated,” Wade said. “The location of which, currently, is unknown to me.”

“That’s the same thing as losing him,” Domino said.

“You lack _all_ understanding of nuance,” Wade said irritably.

He regalled them with the whole tale, from the initial recon at the museum to the raiding of his empty dorm room, to today’s debacle. “It was a fucking slapstick routine,” Wade said, after telling them about the Parker’s perfect comedic timing. “All we needed was some Yakety Sax.”

Domino clapped him on the arm. “At least there wasn’t a wind advisory.” She was far too fucking proud of herself.

Wade made a face and flipped her off. “And then there’s this!” He opened the zipper of his pouch and produced the note, slapping it down on the sticky bar top.

Weasel and Domino leaned closer to read:

_Dear Creepy Stalker--_  
_Back off, I’m a scientist.  
-Peter Parker_

Weasel tapped his finger to the paper. “He got it wrong,” he said. “It’s Peter Venkman who says that.”

“_He’s_ Peter Parker,” Wade said, exasperated.

“So you’re saying the nerdy science boy called you out?” Domino asked. Her eyes were fucking sparkling with mirth.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up fuzzball.” Now Wade was having complicated, uncomfortable, and more than vaguely sexual images Chewbacca in Dom’s suit. He tried to shake it off, with limited success. “I mean, I gotta give him credit for taking my reference and running with it, but I can’t let some cheeky little shit just call me out like that and not do something about it.”

Domino laid her cheek against his shoulder. “Good luck with that,” she said. “You’re doing great, Sweetie.”

Wade ignored her. “I’ll grab him tonight. Drag him right out of class, if I have to. Fuck the Avengers.”

Weasel took the non sequitur in stride. “This is what you get for taking the non-lethal jobs.” Domino nodded in sage agreement, the point of her chin digging into his muscle with the motion.

“Everyone’s a fucking critic,” Wade snapped.

*

Generally speaking, Peter enjoyed the classes pertaining to his major. Somehow he always ended up with the best professors, and he had an inkling that had something to do with Mister Stark. Regardless, they were interesting and engaging, and actually challenged him from time to time, which was a nice change of pace from high school. 

Tonight all he could think about was Deadpool, and what he was going to do. Peter had hurried straight back to his dorm after the library to put his suit on under his clothes, just in case Deadpool had any thoughts of casing out his dorm again. 

It was weird, even with this newer, lighter-weight suit Mister Stark had given him over the summer, for this very purpose. Peter could feel it rubbing up against his clothes every time he moved, and was super self-conscious, worried if he moved too much someone might catch a glimpse of it at the collar of his shirt, or sticking out from under his sleeve.

Of course, it was more likely people would think he had some weird superhero kink than actually guess he was Spider-Man. Between the glasses Mister Stark assured him were cool--and maybe they were, if you were Tony Stark and could wear whatever you wanted and pull it off, no matter how ridiculous--and the way he layered his clothing to add padding, Peter did his best to come across as someone who spent their evenings in the dull glow of a computer screen. Not swinging from rooftop to rooftop.

One more class, and then he’d stash his book bag on the roof of his dorm (not the alley--he’d learned that after about the tenth one Aunt May had had to replace), and then, time to hunt down Deadpool. Peter still didn’t know what he was going to _say_ at that point in time. It was probably stupidly naive of him to hope that Deadpool would just listen to reason...

Peter was shaken from these thoughts by the sound of a commotion outside. It was far enough away that no one else in class had noticed it yet. Lots of raised voices and cries of alarm. Peter sat up a little straighter, skin tingling, and put some actual effort into listening.

_Is he an Avenger?_

_No, man, it’s Spider-Man!_

_The mask is all wrong, and besides, I don’t think Spider-Man uses guns!_

Peter packed up his things hastily and headed out the side door of the lecture hall right as the door in the back burst open. He ducked down, peeking over the edge of the window to look inside. Twice in one day? Jesus, this guy was tenacious. Peter had to hand it to him, at least Deadpool took his job seriously.

Deadpool strode in, a gun held casually in one hand as the wide, and the blank eyes of his mask swept over the room. Professor Rimes gave him an unimpressed look, one brow arched. Peter had to imagine over the length of her long tenure as a professor in New York City, she’d likely seen crazier things, but he still couldn’t help but admire the cool way she asked, “Can I help you?”

Holstering his gun on his thigh, Deadpool came down the steps, surveying each row as he went. “I’m looking for Peter Parker. Dark hair, yea high?” He gestured with a hand held above his shoulder, and Peter bristled. He wasn’t _that_ short. “Nerd glasses--or, hipster, fuck, I don’t know. What a difference twenty years makes to the nomenclature, am I right?”

Professor Rimes crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t know anyone by that name or description.”

Somehow, Deadpool’s mask managed to convey a sarcastically dubious expression as he took in the remaining students, at least seven of which vaguely matched Peter physically. “Really?” he drawled. His hand twitched near his gun, but then flexed into a fist and relaxed. 

Peter wondered the likelihood of his classmates keeping quiet about his identity if he had to come in sans uniform to protect them from a masked maniac.

“He ran out right before you came in,” one of the girls in the front said, and Professor Rimes gave her a quelling look. She pointed at the door and Peter ducked out of sight just in time. He ran down the hall on light feet as he heard Deadpool thank them and start stomping after him.

A few people cast him disapproving looks as Peter burst out of the building and he threw out a distracted apology. 

Fuck, it was way too empty right now. He needed to find cover before Deadpool emerged. He cut between buildings and made it to the nearest staff parking lot when he heard the doors bang open. Without thought, he dropped behind a van and flattened to the concrete to peer beneath the undercarriage.

Deadpool’s boots paced throughout the courtyard, before giving an emphatic “Mother_fucker_. What are the chances?” After a pause, he growled, “Yeah, well, his luck’s gonna run out eventually.”

Another pair of feet approached from the bio building, giving Deadpool a wide berth as they passed, and Deadpool lunged in their direction. “You see a nerdy guy come through here a minute ago?”

The person let out a terrified, “No!” and Deadpool shoved them away with a sound of disgust.

Another long moment passed before Deadpool spun around and headed in the direction of Peter’s dorm building, muttering to whoever was on the other end of the comm about bunking down on the roof. “He’s gotta come home sometime. I’ll just wait the fucker out.”

Peter didn’t like swinging around campus, lest people start to wonder why Spider-Man spent so much time there in particular. Tonight he managed to make it to the rooftops, thankfully without attracting any attention, and made his way towards his room. He heard Deadpool before he saw him, taller buildings in the way, but the man didn’t seem overly concerned with anyone knowing he was there. His voice carried, animated, even if the words weren’t clear.

Peter hesitated when he drew close, uncertain of how Deadpool would react to his presence. Though he had plenty of experience fighting these days, mutants like Deadpool, with his regenerative abilities, were few and far between. Not to mention his ruthlessness. With most of his time spent rounding up burglars and would-be rapists, Peter couldn’t help an apprehensive thrill at the thought of confronting him.

For a long moment, he considered calling in the bigger guns. But Mister Stark was never going to stop handling him with kid gloves if Peter couldn’t step up and take care of his own problems himself.

When he came to rest on the rooftop behind Deadpool, delicate though his landing was, Deadpool’s words cut off abruptly mid-sentence and his shoulders tensed. He didn’t go immediately for a weapon, but that wasn’t any great comfort. Peter had no doubt Deadpool could move as quickly as he could, when properly motivated.

But as Deadpool spun around to face him, his entire demeanour changed. His muscles relaxed, head tilted to the side, mouth visibly dropping open even through his mask. “Why is there someone dressed like Spider-Man on the roof with us? Wait, you see him, too?” he whispered, and then, a moment later, “Oh, right.”

Peter skittered back a step when Deadpool bore down on him, but after a second it became clear Deadpool wasn’t planning on attacking him, stopping a couple feet away and clasping his hands to his chest. “I need you to hit me as hard as you can.”

“What--I--” Peter’s mouth apparently wasn’t waiting for his brain to try to figure that out, simply stuttering out the first thought that flitted through his mind. “I’m not starting a fight club with you.”

Deadpool actually bent in half with laughter, forearms braced on his thighs. “It wasn’t that funny,” Peter said, when he showed no sign of stopping.

“No, no, no, Spidey, I just can’t believe it’s really you, all fleshy and full of blood. I _love_ you--you’re like my favourite non-Avenger superhero!”

This definitely wasn’t going how Peter had imagined. “Wait, seriously?”

“For sure.” Deadpool gave him a thumbs up. “I’ve got all your merch--lunchbox, wallet-chain, bumper sticker. Even these really cute grown-up girl underoos I found at Hot Topic, wanna see?”

“Um,” Peter said, succinctly, but Deadpool had already moved on.

“I can appreciate the small guy working independent of the ole superhero machine. Plus that song? Super ear-wormy, love it.” He gave a shake of his head. “Been tryna come up with one myself, but I can’t seem to rhyme anything with avocado.”

“Bravado, desperado, aficionado,” Peter listed off automatically, ticking them off on his finger. “Incommunicado.”

Deadpool hummed appreciatively. “All that and brains, too.”

Peter made a scoffing noise. Almost completely beyond his control, his body shifted position, going from a defensive pose to something more casual. Turned towards Deadpool, hip cocked to one side where he rested his hand, head tilted in welcoming. “If I’m your favourite non-Avenger, who’s your _favourite_, then?”

“Don’t take it personally,” Deadpool said. “I mean, no one can stack up to Captain America. No matter how fine their ass.” He punctuated the statement by leaning to the side with a pointed leer in Peter’s direction.

Fighting the urge to physically cover his ass with his hand, and setting aside the fact that he couldn’t fault Deadpool on his taste in superheroes, Peter chose to focus on the whole reason behind this meeting. 

“Look, Deadpool.” Peter schooled his features into something stern, then mentally cursed himself at the futility of the gesture, being masked and all that. “What are you doing running around campus waving weapons in people’s faces?”

“There was no waving,” Deadpool protested. “I’ve been very restrained.”

And for Deadpool, that was almost certainly true. “Be that as it may, I can’t have you striking terror in the student population.” Deadpool made a weirdly juvenile squeeing sound, but didn’t interrupt. Peter hesitantly continued, “I don’t know what a merc with your history would even be doing here in the first place…”

“It’s touching that you even know who I am, I’mma be real with you, but I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating about me, Spider-Man,” Deadpool said. “I’ll have you know, I’m a bonafide hero, now.” Here he made an X-shape with his arms and whispered, “X-Force!”

Yes, Peter remembered reading those particular details in the file, stomach churning unpleasantly. Did it really constitute as a team when most of your members had died horribly? 

“Well then, what is a hero doing taking a contract on a college student?”

“I’m not trying to _kill_ anyone, silly billy.” Deadpool flicked him on the nose gently, striking Peter immobile. “Actually, you might even call it philanthropy.”

“Philanthropy,” Peter echoed, dully. Now he was even more confused than ever why Deadpool was coming after him.

“My client is a very sick man, and he’s looking for a cure.”

_Oh_. It all very quickly and suddenly fell into place. _Harry_. Peter’s heart gave a painful pang in his chest. It was hard enough to have to deny Harry what he thought would cure him, but to know that he’d go to these lengths to try to steal Peter’s blood.

There wasn’t much he could say without giving himself away, here. “I’m having trouble trying to figure out why someone wealthy enough to hire you would need a college student to cure him. Why not spend that money on research, instead?”

“I don’t know if my client would want me going into all the details with Spider-Man,” Deadpool said, tone serious, and his face, covered though it was, still projected a grave expression.

Peter was considering if it was better to try to threaten the information out of him, or cajole it, when Deadpool brightened considerably and waved a hand in the air. “But who gives a fuck about that!” 

Deadpool sidled closer and pitched his voice low, as if there were someone else around to overhear them. Peter rolled his eyes, but obligingly stepped closer when Deadpool signalled him to do so.

“So story is, the Osborns _have_ poured much of their considerable billions into that very research, yet incredibly, the only one to come up with the cure is, get this, Harry’s childhood friend.” Deadpool jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the dormitory. “Peter Parker, science nerd extraordinaire. Only Parker is being stingy with said cure. Real soap opera shit, huh?”

“So what, you’re going to kidnap Parker and deliver him to Osborn?” Peter demanded. “How is that heroic?”

“I’m _helping_ to save a man’s life!”

“How do you know that? Do you know that Parker has the cure? What if this is some...revenge thing? What if Osborn is tricking you?” Peter had to bite his lip against giving away more than he intended with his tone or words.

Deadpool went all still in a way that was seriously unnerving. He suddenly looked a lot more like the guy capable of all those things listed in his file than Spider-Man fanboy. “I mean,” Peter began, trying to figure out how to backtrack.

“I suppose you have a point,” was all Deadpool said. “Alright Spidey, you win. No kidnapping any college students.” Before Peter could say much else, Deadpool made his way towards the fire escape and gave him a little salute. “It was a pleasure meeting you.” 

Then, rather than descending the fire escape as Peter expected, Deadpool straight up leapt off the side of the building. A moment later, Peter jumped at the sound of a body hitting the ground. He ran to the edge of the roof, ready to follow Deadpool down and check the damage, only to see him pulling his broken body up and limping away.

Peter watched him go with mingled horror and disbelief. _What the fuck?_ And not just Deadpool, what was wrong with Peter, exchanging witty repartee, practically flirting? He smacked a hand against his face, and was really grateful he’d long ago disabled the recording features of his mask that would have beamed that exchange back to Mister Stark.

Erring on the side of caution, Peter followed Deadpool as he left campus. The file hadn’t lied about his healing factor, which was far more aggressive than Peter’s. After a few hundred feet broken bones had knitted back together, and by the time he reached the waiting cab, Deadpool looked as good as new. Once he was gone, Peter swung back to collect his bag and head back to his room. 

Could it really be that easy? Deadpool’s file didn’t give the impression of a man that was so...reasonable. There were multiple entries from Professor X on attempts at recruiting him that indicated the opposite, in fact. 

But maybe...well, he’d said Peter was one of his favourite heroes. Maybe he was more willing to listen to someone he looked up to.

The thought was absurd, and weirdly made Peter’s cheeks heat, that Deadpool looked up to him. Suddenly, Deadpool’s comment about his ass came to mind, and the heat spread down his throat and around the back of his neck. 

People didn’t _talk_ to him like that. Even MJ, who’d never been one to withhold physical compliments, had kept them pretty tame. Peter stood in front of the mirror on the back of his door and turned to the side, examining himself in profile, trying to see what Deadpool had seen. 

Sure, he could acknowledge that the suit did wonders at showing off his muscles. But everything that was special about him, from his strength and healing to the physique that Deadpool appreciated, was all down to the spider bite. Deadpool might find Spider-Man hot, but Peter Parker was just a nerd, and a clearly expendable one, at that.

Well, at least now he had one less thing to worry about. Peter stripped out of the suit and locked it safely away, then redressed in his favourite hoodie and sweatshorts, and climbed into bed with his laptop. Now he could focus on his trig homework, and maybe catch a few hours of sleep before heading over to the lab.

Everything back to normal.

So why did his thoughts keep straying to their conversation? Definitely more interesting than his normal showdowns, that was for sure. The villains he tangled with had no appreciation for his sense of humour. Not, he was sure, that he could call Deadpool a villain. He certainly wasn’t anything like the picture his file had painted. Crazy, for sure, and definitely dangerous. But not evil.

And it had been kinda fun, hadn’t it, playing cat and mouse. Peter groaned in frustration, letting his laptop slide off his stomach as he rolled onto his side. This was absurd. He needed to focus on the fact that it was Harry behind it all, and even if Deadpool was going to lay off Peter Parker, there would definitely be others to follow.

Shit, maybe he should have brought Mister Stark in to begin with.

No, no. Peter was an adult, and he’d been doing this hero thing for almost five years now. He handled Deadpool, and he could handle Harry. Things definitely hadn’t been the same after Harry went off to Europe and returned, basically a stranger after seven years. And MJ dumping Peter for him hadn’t helped. Peter still didn’t understand how Harry got to be the jealous one, when he’d gotten MJ in the end. 

That had make things awkward, for sure, but turning down the request for blood had been the nail in the coffin of that friendship. Peter couldn’t explain it properly without giving away his secret identity, that it wasn’t just the Parker blood that ran through his veins anymore. Whatever the spider venom had done to him, he didn’t want to find out what it would do to Harry. Particularly not after what had gone down with Norman and the whole Green Goblin fiasco.

But the fact that Harry hadn’t paid Deadpool to kill him said he wasn’t too far gone. He hadn’t tipped over into madness like Norman had, before the end. Peter could still reach the boy he’d once called his best friend. He had to believe there was still a chance to pull him back from the edge.


	4. Chapter 4

Wade wasn’t a quitter. It wasn’t so much a killer work ethic--

[Ha! I see what you did there!]

\--as it was the inability to ever let anyone get one over on him, especially not some twenty year old college student who looked like he spent more time in the sickly glow of his computer screen than in daylight, who subsisted off caffeine and cheese puffs, and left snarky notes with dated references. Honor must be satisfied, or some shit.

[[He’s referring to himself as God, again.]]

He felt a little guilty, going after the kid when he’d promised Spider-Man he wouldn’t, but it wasn’t entirely a lie. He’d said he wouldn’t kidnap Parker, and that was no longer the plan. Osborn had said it was Parker’s blood he needed, and Wade could get that without doing any lasting damage to the kid.

That was the general idea, anyway. First Wade wouldn’t mind getting the kid alone, and maybe tied down to a chair where he couldn’t disappear into thin air. He had a few answers he’d like to get out of Parker. Hear his side of the story. Find out whether he should hand the blood over or not.

And he wasn’t wasting any fucking time with darts today. Which wasn’t to say that Wade’s aim was anything other than impeccable, but the kid was clumsier than a drunken meth head with a broken heel. Nah, precision instruments left too much room for error with this one. A grenade launcher loaded up with knockout gas and an enclosed space should do the trick.

Parker was a night owl, which meant the collateral damage on the subway car would be minimal. Wade watched him depart Stark Industries and gave it a few blocks before dropping down to street level to pursue, lest Spidey, if he was keeping an eye on the situation, catch a glimpse of him.

It was a Tuesday night, close to eleven, and the green line was mostly dead. Wade lingered at the far end of the platform, a fair distance from where Parker was leaning casually against a pillar. He was looking very much the stereotypical college student tonight, with his hair tousled and eyes red-rimmed. His green button down was half untucked and opened at the collar to reveal t-shirt beneath, and for once he wasn’t looking at his phone, just resting his head back against the pillar, like if it wasn’t holding him upright he might pass out.

Seriously, Osborne couldn’t have hired some random thug off the street and had this handled a lot cheaper?

A few people shot Wade strange looks, but moved along quickly enough without comment. Most New Yorkers had been inured to crazies in spandex and kevlar by now, but go out in a hoodie with his face exposed, and suddenly they couldn’t stop staring. 

The express came roaring along after a few minutes, which was perfect. The train wouldn’t be stopping for seven minutes before the next station, meaning there was no where for Parker to slip away this time. Parker boarded and Wade got on a few cars down, waiting for the doors to slide shut before making his move. Someone must have been run to catch it at the last minute, as the doors closed, then opened, then closed again before the train finally jolted into motion.

Wade made for the door between the cars, moving quickly from one to the next as the train passed through the tunnels. He pulled on his mask and gloves as he went, drawing more concerned looks, but so what else was new?

More people had gravitated towards the centre of the train, and Parker’s car had maybe a half dozen besides him. Well. They’d have a bit of a headache when they woke up, but they’d almost certainly had a worse time on New York Public Transit before.

The pocket launcher, besides having a delightfully suggestive name, had cost a pretty penny for a such a tiny one. It wasn’t Deadpool’s usual style, but now it had finally found its purpose. In one quick motion, he’d lowered the window on the door just enough to fit the nozzle of the launcher through, and pulled the trigger.

There were startled cries and the hiss of the gas being dispersed. Wade shoved the window closed and watched as it filled the space of the train. A series of thumps followed, no doubt the bodies hitting the floor.

(And here, Yellow began a delightful rendition of Down With the Sickness

[The Richard Cheese version, obviously.]

“Obviously,” Wade agreed absently.)

Wade pulled on the breathing mask he’d brought along and opened the door, stepping into the cloud. A few steps in, he frowned at the distinct lack of bodies. 

“What the--”

From the wall of smoke, his empty canister came rolling back at him, and Wade stopped it with his foot.

“I thought we had an understanding.”

Wade cringed as Spider-Man emerged from the smoke, arms crossed over his chest, the whites of his mask narrowed. “Spider-Man, wow, guess it's true, superheroes are just like us, taking the subway like the common man."

“Jesus Christ, Deadpool, what the hell were you thinking? You said you wouldn’t go after Parker, and here you are gassing an entire goddamn train!” Spidey exclaimed. “Great fucking job being a hero!”

“I’m gonna be completely honest with you, I’m not sure how to process you swearing. It does not compute with your image. And also, it’s kinda hot.”

Spider-Man made an exasperated sound. “I don’t want to have to fight you, but I will if I have to. You can’t go around gassing people!”

“It’s just a little halothane, little ether, throw in some proprietary Deadpool knockout blend,” Wade said soothingly, holding up his hands to placate. “I call it the Long Kiss Goodnight. Just imagine it’s like Nick Fury punching you in the face while whispering, _go the fuck to sleep_.”

“Oh my god, you’re insane.” Spider-Man threw his hands in the air. 

“I prefer charmingly eccentric.”

[[And delusional, to boot.]]

“Whatever,” Spider-Man said. “I looked into this whole Osborn/Parker situation, since you apparently don’t care, or are too lazy.”

[Them’s fighten’ words!]

[[Only I’m allowed to talk to you like that.]]

[I don’t care how magnificent his ass is, you can’t let him get away with it!]

Wade swatted irritably at the boxes, and hoped it just looked like he was trying to clear the smoke. It was a little early in their relationship to try to explain that whole situation to Spidey, and it wouldn’t go very far to dissuade the notion of him being crazy.

“I’ll have you know I did plenty of research. Got a whole board with pushpins and bright red yarn and everything.”

Wow, it was like Spider-Man could convey his eye roll _through_ his mask. Impressive. Wade wondered if he could beam back heart-eyes with his own. “I think that’s more tinhat-style than Sherlock Holmes.”

“That’s not what _Elementary_ taught me, and Johnny Lee Miller wouldn’t do me wrong like that. Unlike Gingerbread Honeybadger.”

“I...have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Strange,” Deadpool drawled, in a weirdly pointed way.

Spider-Man shook his head. “Whatever, look, Richard Parker was definitely onto something, that’s true. But he chose to destroy his life’s work, something with the potential to save millions of lives, out of fear of what Norman Osborn was going to do with it. And even if we give his son the benefit of the doubt, which, given that he’s hiring a mercenary to kidnap a college student, he doesn’t deserve! But supposing we do, the fact remains that I should--”

Spider-Man trailed off abruptly, and looked around, like he was surprised to find himself where he was. He cleared his throat before continuing. “We should get off this car.” 

They moved into the next car, where the previous occupants had been ushered by Spider-Man, and now eyed Wade nervously. Spider-Man gave them a reassuring nod and kept leading Wade further down the train until they found an empty car. Belatedly, Wade pulled off his gas mask, but made sure the mask beneath was firmly in place. Didn’t need Spidey seeing any of _that_ mess.

Once they were alone, Spider-Man turned, and then leaned in over his crossed arms to hiss at Wade, “I think...that Peter Parker should be able to choose for himself what happens to his body. He has the right to deny some billionaire demanding his blood, and he shouldn’t have to explain himself.”

When he put it like that, Wade felt a hot stab of self-righteous anger on Parker’s behalf. When he put it like that, Wade should be fucking ashamed of himself, even thinking about handing Parker over to someone like Osborn for scientific experimentation, after what he’d been through with Project X.

“Fuck, Spidey, I didn’t think--I’m sorry. No more, this time I mean it. Cross my heart, can’t die, but feel free to stick a needle in my eye, catch a tiger by the toe, all that jazz.”

“How am I supposed to believe a thing you say?” Spider-Man asked.

Wade held up a finger and fished in his pocket for his phone and the golden card. He dialled the number and had to wait a few rings. Maybe Osborn was an early to bed type. He answered with a raspy voice, but eager. “Do you have him?”

“Ah, about that.”

“Yes?” Wade had to admit, the guy could manage to pack a whole world of menace into a single word.

“So here’s the thing. I’ve had some time to think this whole ‘kidnapping a kid to force him into scientific experimentation thing,’ and--”

“He’s not a _kid_,” Osborn growled.

“Potato, potato, but that’s besides the point,” Wade said. “It has come to my attention that it wouldn’t be a very heroly thing to do.”

A harsh breath sounded down the line, and when Osborn spoke, Wade could hear the clench in his jaw. “I’ve already paid you one hundred million dollars, Mister Wilson.”

“Yeah, well, I mean, there’s only so much Ikea a man can buy.”

[[And only so much wealth you can hoard uselessly while living like a goddamn bum.]]

It was a lifestyle choice. “Anyway, you can have your money back.”

“You can’t simply quit now. We had a deal.”

“I can,” Wade told him cheerfully. “I just did.”

“Your so-called heroism is misguided,” Osborn said. “And it hardly matters in the end. What, do you think I’d just stop, if you refuse the job? There are others who will gladly take your place, and won’t share your compunction about hurting _children_.”

“Well now, Harry old boy, that sounds like a threat.”

Spider-Man, who’d been watching mostly without reaction now stepped closer, radiating concern. Wade held up a hand. “Let me do you a favour right now, and tell you to quit while you’re ahead. Whoever you send, they’re gonna have to get through me, first. And I’m not the only one who’s got Parker’s back.”

Osborn laughed in a way that honestly sent chills down Wade’s spine. It was so unexpectedly sinister, it left him feeling wrong-footed in this conversation. “I see,” he drawled. “You tell Spider-Man hi from me. I’ll be seeing you both soon.”

The line went dead, and Wade shoved the phone back in its pocket. “That didn’t sound promising from this end,” Spider-Man said.

“It depends on perspective, I guess,” Wade said, consideringly. “He said he’s sending someone after Parker--and us--but, I mean, I’m always up for a little mayhem.”

Spider-Man legitimately face-palmed. “I don’t know how I expected any of this to go any better.” His voice was muffled through the multiple layers of mask and glove. “Mister Stark would so not approve.”

Wade hesitated a moment before patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. Surprisingly, Spider-Man didn’t shrug him off or move away, but then again, he seemed pretty wrapped up in his breakdown. “Hey look, don’t worry. You don’t need to call him in. We got this.”

Spider-Man lifted his head. “What are you planning, Deadpool?”

“Least I can do is make sure no one else comes for Parker, after, you know, all the stalking and light torment.”

“You--” Spider-Man spluttered, then stopped, and took a deep breath. “You were just about to gas him and steal his blood! You can’t--you--” He threw both hands in the air and turned away with a frustrated sound. 

When he turned back, his voice was pitched lower and he spoke slowly and calmly, like he was addressing a child. “Deadpool, I appreciate that you have seen the error of your ways, and you’ve called off the contract with Osborn. I can handle the situation from here on out.”

The train was arriving at the next stop, and Wade could already seen several uniforms standing at the ready, no doubt alerted to the situation on the train. “I would love to debate this with you further, Spidey, but they’re playing my song, so I really gotta run. But don’t you worry your sweet little buns. I’ve got you and the P-man covered!”

Before the train could pull to a stop, Wade went out the door, ignoring Spider-Man’s protests calling after him. There was nothing to worry about. He’d take care of Osborn before he had a chance to hire someone else. Problem solved!


	5. Chapter 5

The thing was, Wade did like to consider himself a hero, and no matter what NTW or Colossus or anyone else said, sometimes being a hero meant doing the ugly work that no one else would. Of course, there was the whole ethical dilemma--

[[Please, let’s not pretend you even understand the concept.]]

\--because sure, Osborn was a douche, but was he evil? Ugh, things had been so much easier before, when Wade had just done what felt right, regardless of what anyone else said.

But Spider-Man was a good guy. Even if Wade didn’t know the right thing to do on his own, he could trust Spider-Man to know right from wrong, and he’d immediately known Osborn was bad news.

[[Yeah, but he didn’t mean for you to kill the guy.]]

“That’s what I’m good for,” Wade muttered. Killing the people that needed to be killed, that the other heroes were too goodie two-shoes to finish off like they should.

The first problem he ran into was apparently billions of dollars bought you a fucking compound and veritable army of guards. Osborn’s mansion sat on the Gold Coast, surrounded by a twelve foot reinforced wall. Guards were posted at regular intervals and making rounds, tricked out with full body armour and weaponry with serious stopping power. Surely Osborn hadn’t pulled all this out just for Wade, and yeah, the guy was rich and powerful, but why did he need this kind of security?

And Spider-Man might eventually come around if Wade were to kill Osborn, but if he just started cutting a swath through the hired help? Well, that might be harder to forgive.

[[Since when do you fucking care? You’re a fucking _monster_. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling with this hero bullshit--]]

Wade hummed aggressively, which didn’t shut White up, but at least distracted Wade marginally from what he was saying. When Yellow joined in, it definitely helped, especially because it pissed off White.

Getting in without killing anyone was an oddly satisfying challenge, like a nice stealth video game. Though, to be honest, Wade sucked at those. Not because he couldn’t do it, but because it was so much more fun to charge in guns blazing.

Wade left a trail of unconscious guards tucked as inconspicuously as possible behind bushes and out buildings. The main house was set up with a fancy, high-tech alarm system with motion and pressure detection, and about a dozen failsafes that Wade had no idea how to bypass. Instead, he decided to scale the outside where latticework by the conservatory provided a handy ladder.

But the roof had its own set of obstacles, with security cameras mounted fucking everywhere, and more guards patrolling.

“What the hell is this asshole guarding in there?”

[[More like, who the hell is this asshole guarding against.]]

Hmm. Osborn had spoken of Spider-Man with familiarity. As if he’d faced him down before. But if Osborn was hiding the kind of secret that made him a personal threat to Spider-Man, why bother with a middle man? Anyone who could take on Spider-Man could certainly go after Parker themselves.

Wade had to move fast and without hesitation to avoid the sweeping eyes of the cameras, and silently, to avoid detection by the guards. An initial scan of the blue prints made it most likely that Osborn’s room was on the back of the second floor, where a panic room had been installed just off the master bedroom.

That suspicion was pretty much confirmed by the two guards on the balcony of the room. 

Yellow sing-songed in his head,

[It’s beginning to feel a lot like overkill.]

Something definitely didn’t feel right, that was for sure. Wade dropped down silently behind one guy and got an arm around his neck in a chokehold. He grabbed the gun as the guy brought it up and twisted it from his grip as the other guard turned to face them, weapon raised. Wade trained the gun on him and clamped down harder against the struggling of the man in his arm.

“Now normally, you’d already be dead,” Wade told him. “But I’m trying something new, so it’s your lucky day. I’m just here for Osborn.”

“You’re not gonna find him,” the guard said.

Wade let the dead weight of the man in his arms drop to the ground, and stepped closer in menace. “Is that little creep’s life worth more than your own?”

The guard looked properly terrified, taking a step back until he hit the railing. He looked over the edge like he was considering a jump rather than facing Deadpool down. “No, I mean--” he stuttered. “I mean, he’s not here.”

“Yeah, nice try.” Wade grabbed him by the edge of his kevlar vest and knocked the gun from his hand in one fluid motion.

“No!” The man flung his hands up. “No, I mean it! You can look. He never sleeps here.”

“Right,” Wade drawled. “So he just keeps this place on lockdown to protect all the antiques, huh?”

“I don’t know why,” the guard said. “He brought us all in about ten months ago, but I’ve only ever seen him a couple times. He’ll come by during the day, spend a few hours, but he never stays the night. No one knows where he lives for real.”

Wade knocked the guy out with a sharp blow to the temple and laid him down on the balcony before proceeding to the door. There was a card reader, and Wade quickly found the corresponding card on one of the bodies, and swiped his way inside. 

The bedroom itself looked like something out of an old castle, all dark, heavy furniture and a gigantic bed swathed in thick curtains. Wade approached it with katana drawn, ready to strike, but when he swiped back the curtain it was to find the bed neatly made and unslept in.

From the blueprints, and the way the floor curved downward under the weight of reinforced steel, it was easy to find the panic room. A bookshelf served as coverage for the door. But no one had engaged it, and the door opened without effort when Wade dragged the shelf back, revealing an empty space.

[[Is it a surprise someone as paranoid as this freak would have a decoy panic room?]]

Wade had gone after a lot of very rich and powerful people in his time, and this definitely took the cake. In particular, he was trying to figure out how someone like Osborn could have ever been friends with someone like Parker. It was difficult to imagine.

As he was standing there, considering what to do next, his phone started buzzing in its pocket. Wade drew it out, answering without bothering to check the ID. “What?” he snapped.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t have gone after Peter with the same skill and expedience you’re showing now.”

Wade’s eyes flicked around the panic room until he saw the tiny pinhole camera mounted in the corner and flipped it off. “Hey, I told you from the start it wasn’t my kind of job.”

Osborn made a humming noise. “That’s quite alright. I’m not surprised a man of your reputation would come for me when threatened, but I’m afraid you’re too late. I’ve already contracted someone else for the job. You can keep the hundred million. Might as well enjoy your last few days.”

Well, if that’s how he was going to be, no point in continuing _this_ conversation. Wade pulled a face under the mask and hung up the phone, then made an even more obscene gesture at the camera while muttering, “Oh, I will enjoy the fuck out of your money, asshole.” Buying a whole shit ton worth of new weaponry to murder his ass with.

Clearly Osborn hadn’t done all that much research after all, if he thought a hired gun could take him out. But Peter Parker on the other hand, was just a normal, if marginally lucky, guy.

Parker already apparently had a fairy god hero in the form of Spider-Man. He may have been small time compared to the Avengers, but he’d more than proven himself, between his various encounters with Mysterio and Vulture, and the Green Goblin. He could no doubt hold his own against whatever Osborn might throw at him.

But even reasoning that, Wade felt a pang of something uncomfortably like guilt in his gut. 

“What is troubling you, Mister Pool?” Dopinder asked, when Wade made it back to his waiting cab.

“I think it’s...responsibility,” Wade said in hushed disbelief. He flopped his head back against the seat. “Ah shit I’m gonna have to protect the kid.” At the very least, it probably meant more time hanging out with Spidey, right?

*

Sister Margaret’s was mostly empty by the time Wade rocked up. Everyone had either picked up a trick, gone on a job, or gone to the hospital. He’d passed Tabitha leaving on his way in, and made sure to pat down his various pouches and pockets to make sure she hadn’t lifted anything.

At the bar, Buck was slumped over, possibly unconscious. Dom was playing pool with Scott, who was the only one either good-natured or stupid enough to even try to beat her, and Nathan was drinking alone in a booth at the back, staring blankly at the wall. Dopinder scurried in behind him, going for the mop and bucket behind the bar.

“What the hell were you thinking taking Osborn’s job?”

Weasel lifted his head as Wade took his regular seat at the bar and gave him an unimpressed look. “I am trying to run a business here, and nobody else here has a problem with it.”

“That’s because you hire a bunch of moral reprobates.” On the next stool over, Buck made a clicking sound with his tongue, and Wade answered with a, “No offence, but full offence.”

Buck shrugged. “No, it’s fair. I do hurt people for money. My therapist says--”

“I’mma have to stop you there Buck. I’m sure it’s super insightful and all, but I just don’t give a fuck.” Wade turned his attention back to Weasel. “It’s probably too much to hope that Osborn went through you to hire the new guy.”

“The new guy?” he asked. “What the hell happened with you?”

“Did the kid give you the slip again?” Dom called out.

“No,” Wade snapped. “If you must know, I decided not to go through with it after all.”

“Huh,” Dom said, at the same time Weasel said, “No fucking way, man. It was a 250 million dollar job!”

“Do you know who he hired, or not?” Wade asked.

Weasel squinted at him. “How the fuck am I supposed to know that, you just--” He huffed a sigh and turned towards his computer. “Give me a few minutes. Buck, get the hell out, we’re closing.” When Buck just grumbled drunkenly, Weasel called out, “Scott, can you get him home?”

Wade took advantage of Weasel’s distraction to half-climb on the bar and lean over to grab a bottle of tequila from beneath it. He twisted off the lid and took a long swallow. “How upset is Parker likely to be to see me, do you think, on a scale from ‘Killer Klowns From Outer Space’ to ‘Plan Nine From Outer Space’?”

“That’s as high as your scale goes?” Domino gave him an arched brow. “I think it can go higher.” She tipped her head to the side in thought. “Or maybe lower?” 

Wade just had to keep reminding himself it was totally worth it, because Spider-Man would most definitely be looking out for Parker, too. And the two of them could work together, and Spidey would learn to trust him, and eventually see they were totally MFEO, and they could settle down with a few hundred spiderlings and live happily ever after.

“I don’t even want to know what’s going through that twisted head of yours right now, do I?” Domino asked.

“What would freak Parker out more, showing up in the suit, or seeing my face?”

“Your face,” Weasel and Domino at once, while Dopinder echoed them meekly.

A beat later, Cable chimed in. “Your fucking face.”

“It’s High Octane Nightmare Fuel, man,” Weasel said, only minimally contrite.

“Keep ‘em coming.” Wade took a long chug off the tequila. It didn’t _help_, but it didn’t make things _worse_, either. “It’s alright, I like the way it hurts. Does anyone else think it was wildly inappropriate to have RhiRhi singing that so soon after the whole Chris Brown thing? Not that anyone is ever going to accuse Eminem of being appropriate.”

“Victor Creed,” Weasel said, placing his laptop down on the bar and spinning it with a flourish. 

Wade whistled in appreciation. “Great name. Sounds like a black boxer from the deep south, trying to fight his towards freedom from the oppressive racist machine.”

Domino leaned in to scan the text on screen and her brow furrowed. “This goes all the way back to the 40s.”

“The 1940s?” Wade asked, squinting at the screen.

“What other 40s could I possibly mean?” Domino said. “Someone with a longer kill list than yours might be intimidating, if he weren’t, like, 90.”

“Try over a hundred,” Weasel corrected. “Must have some regenerative abilities, along with his superspeed and strength. And his claws.”

“Wait a minute--” Wade held up a hand. “He’s ripping off my boy Wolvie?”

Weasel grabbed the tequila out of Wade’s grip and took a hit himself. “Given his record, it seems more likely that Wolverine ripped him off.”

“Another fucking Weapon X graduate, fucking awesome.” Wade could empathise with his fellow lab rats, while simultaneously hoping to never meet any of them. With one or two notable exceptions.

“Yeah, well, Victor Creed--”

“Seriously, _great name_,” Wade said. “Victor Creed. A comic book villain and previously unrepentant killer who suddenly discovers the value of life and redeems himself as an antihero.”

“Meh.” Weasel pulled a face. “That’s a little too meta.”

“I know Creed,” Cable said. He’d moved like a fucking ninja, impressive given the whir of his machinery, and dropped down on the stool Buck had vacated. Maybe his coolest superpower was the way he could just slide his empty glass across the bar and Weasel would refill it without question or sass and return it with an air of servility. Wade was a big enough man to acknowledge that he found it more than a little arousing.

“If he’s after your boy, he won’t stop until Parker’s in itty bitty pieces.”


	6. Chapter 6

Peter was exhausted, stressed out, and anxious as fuck. He couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before Harry’s next merc came after him. And Peter wasn’t holding out a lot of hope for someone who could be reasoned with again.

The time to tell Mister Stark had well and truly passed. At this point, if Peter didn’t handle it himself, he’d be locked away upstate for his own good. Nevermind what he’d have to say about Peter letting Deadpool run around. And true to his word, Deadpool was still around. 

He supposed, if he didn’t have super senses and forewarning, he would have never actually known it. Deadpool was wearing civilian clothing and blending really well into the background, or watching him from the rooftops. Even though Peter never caught him in full view, he was aware of Deadpool’s presence everywhere he went.

“Man, you look like trashed,” Ned told him, when Peter met him up at the coffee shop. 

Which was a fair assessment. Aunt May liked to tell him he tried to take on too much, and for the most part Peter protested he could handle it, but right now it was starting to feel like just a matter of time before plates started crashing down around him.

Peter gratefully grasped the dirty chai that Ned had already ordered for him between his cold hands and took a long, greedy sip. Oooh, with an extra shot of espresso, too. Ned was the best. “Mmm, awake juice, thank you.”

Ned huffed in amusement. “What’s going on with you? Shawn said you fell asleep during lecture this morning.”

It was strange, talking about Harry to Ned. Even though he knew everything else there was to know about what Peter got up to Spider-Man, it felt like a secret that wasn’t his to share. Especially when everyone else was still on friendly terms with Harry.

“Just this guy that’s been hanging around,” Peter said, shaking his head. “I mean, he’s not a bad guy, technically. I don’t think.” The jury was still out on that. “But he’s unpredictable, and I don’t know what he’s going to do next.” 

There. It wasn’t exactly a lie, even if it wasn’t the truth.

“You mean Stranger Danger in the hoodie who was following us around the museum?” Ned asked.

Peter gave him a wide-eyed look. “You noticed him?”

“Peter, I’m your guy in the chair,” Ned said with mock outrage. “I notice everything.”

"Okay, well...have you heard of Deadpool?”

“That was Deadpool?” Ned hissed. He had the exact expression on his face as when Lego announced the Sandcrawler. “Dude, I heard on reddit that he fought zombie Ronald Reagan in outer space.”

“C’mon man, you know you can’t believe everything you read on the internet. There’s also a thread that says I’m the secret lovechild of Mister Stark and Black Widow! Nat would’ve been, like...12 when she had me!” And anyway, Mister Stark would have told him about it if someone had actually reanimated the dead presidents. Right? He wouldn’t have let that opportunity just pass Peter by.

Ned turned on the puppy dog eyes. “Zombie presidents. In space.”

“I am at least 80% sure it’s made up,” Peter finally allowed, because just given what he’d read on Deadpool, and from meeting the man in person, who fucking knew?

“But what does Deadpool want with you?”

“Well, it turns out I’m his favourite superhero. After Cap, anyway.” And while Peter still couldn’t fault Deadpool on that, it would be nice to be someone’s first favourite, just once.

“You think he wants to team up?” Ned asked excitedly.

“The opportunity might present itself.” Peter chose his words carefully. More half-truths that didn’t feel right. “So yeah, I’ve been working on that, mostly.”

“But everything’s okay, right?” Ned’s earnest concern was always touching. “You’re not in any danger.”

Peter gave him a smile that felt tired and forced. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Good, because Gwen wants to get together with Shawn and Marlowe to study for chem on Sunday, if you can skip out on patrolling,” Ned said. “I can cover for you if you’re too busy, though.”

Marlowe was cool, and Shawn made the best study picnic baskets with homemade muffins, and maybe someday Peter might muster enough courage to flirt back with Gwen. “No, no, it’s fine.” It would be. Peter could could juggle school, and work, and research, and being Spider-Man, and a social life, and it would be perfectly fine.

*

Peter didn't have to feign his shocked scream when Deadpool showed up, because his tingle totally let him down this time. All he could figure is that apparently it had finally decided Deadpool was no longer a threat, or else he was just that tired and out of it.

He was on his way back to his dorm after stopping by the tower for some time at the lab. With night fully fallen, the weather had taken a sharp turn from chilly to downright frigid. Peter was huddled in on himself, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie, walking faster than he probably should have as a civilian, when out of nowhere a set of hands grabbed him, one around his torso, the other clapping over his mouth.

After the embarrassingly high-pitched sound escaped him, Peter had to fight the initial instinct to pull the hand off his mouth and throw his attacker over his shoulder. A split-second before he could, his brain caught up, recognised the black and red leather on the arm around him, and reminded him that science nerd Peter wasn’t supposed to be able to do that. Instead, he resigned himself with a sullen little tug at Deadpool’s hand.

Deadpool dragged him down a side alley and into a trash alcove, where he pushed Peter against the wall and made a hushing sound. “Stay quiet if you want to live.” The hand on Peter’s chest pressed more firmly and Deadpool made a speculative noise. “Are you one of those secretly jacked nerds?”

Peter shoved at Deadpool’s chest, reining in his strength, and Deadpool removed his hand from over his mouth. “Seriously?” he snapped, and shoved again, harder. “Get off me!”

“I get that we started off on the wrong foot, with the whole library incident.” Peter arched a brow, and Deadpool cleared his throat. “And...other things.”

“You gassed my train car,” Peter hissed.

“Yeah, but Spider-Man saved you!” Deadpool waved a dismissive hand. “Listen, I don’t have time to explain everything right now, but your old friend Harry Osborn is out for your blood, kiddo, and I’m here to protect you.”

“As you pointed out, I’ve got Spider-Man watching my back, so thanks, but no thanks,” Peter said snarkily.

“And where is Spider-Man right now?” Deadpool demanded. “Some chick’s been following you for three blocks. She could be an assassin, and Spidey’s no where to be seen.”

Peter shoved again, and this time Deadpool finally backed off, so he could approach the mouth of the alley and peer out. He scanned the people passing by on the street until his gaze fell on a familiar red-head standing on the corner, looking around herself in confusion.

“That’s C.C. She’s another intern at Stark Industries.” He patted down his pockets and pulled out his phone, to confirm he’d left it turned off after class earlier. “She must have had a question about something and I wasn’t answering her texts, so she was trying to catch up with me. Can I go now, Mister Schwarzenegger?”

“Ha. Not so fast.” Deadpool snagged his arm. “I’ve looked into this guy Osborn hired. He’s not someone you wanna tangle with.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Peter tugged on his arm.

Deadpool’s grip tightened briefly before releasing him. “I like your sass, kid. I’d prefer not seeing you end up sliced and diced.”

“Aww, that’s sweet,” Peter said. “It means a lot coming from the guy who’s been stalking me.”

Deadpool tipped his head back and whispered at the sky, “Teenagers.”

“I’m twenty,” Peter said, and the look Deadpool gave him made him shrink in on himself a bit.

“Okay, Peter,” Deadpool said, voice dripping condescension. “You heard of Victor Creed?”

Peter frowned. “Is that even a real name? Sounds like the pastor of a charismatic church who’s been bitten by his rattlers at least twenty times already. He doesn’t have hands anymore so much as gnarled stumps.”

That earned an almost shocked burst of laughter from Deadpool. “Yeah, well, instead of pastor, imagine immortal sociopathic soldier of fortune, and instead of the stumps imagine Wolverine-esque claws.”

A cold chill went down Peter’s spine. That was quite a jump from Deadpool’s mostly harmless antics. Harry must have been pissed, and desperate. The helpless pain in Peter’s chest that had started with his uncle’s death and just got bigger every time he couldn’t save someone ached at the thought. It must have shown in his face.

“Hey,” Deadpool’s voice was weirdly gentle. He placed a hesitant hand on Peter’s shoulder and Peter only shrugged it off half-heartedly. “It’ll be okay. You’ve got Spidey, and now you’ve got me.”

At the moment, Peter didn’t have it in him to protest very strongly. “I have to get home,” he choked out. “Just--leave me alone, you’ve done enough.” he pushed past Deadpool, and he moved aside to let Peter pass. Peter could feel his eyes on him as he jogged to catch up with C.C. and answered the question she had. The presence followed him all the way back to campus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know this chapter is a bit shorter than usual. Still doing somewhat extensive edits to the next three chapters, but I wanted to get something up this week. Hope you all enjoyed it :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are so many pop culture references in this one, though there are a couple I doubt ANYONE will get. Cookies, if you do!

Between Weasel’s research and Cable’s experience, Wade had learned as much about Creed--better known in the merc underworld by his self-chosen sobriquet, Sabertooth--as he could, without squaring off against him for himself. Or possibly by talking with Logan, but he wasn’t answering any of Wade’s calls. He had to appreciate Wolvie’s ability to hold a grudge. No one could doubt his commitment to Sparkle Motion.

Best intel put him somewhere in East Africa. Bouncing around from South Sudan to Ethiopia to Uganda, causing problems with the locals and for Wakanda. Without eyes on him, there was no telling how long it would take him to get to New York. He might already be here, and even if he wasn’t, there was still Osborn’s fucking army of hired guns to consider.

No, despite Peter’s protests, it was best if Wade just kept constant watch on him. Wade had never considered just how dangerous New York City could be to a non super powered individual. All the potential ways for a college kid to get himself killed, and Spider-Man nowhere to be seen.

Parker was up at the crack of dawn, looking like he’d rolled out of bed in his wrinkled hoodie and jeans combo, with his shoes fucking untied like a goddamn toddler. 

[Isn't that Miles' shtick?]

Wade hummed in agreement. How Parker wasn’t tripping every other step, with his clumsiness, was a fucking mystery. He left campus and headed for the train station, head bent over his phone as usual, and Wade trailed behind at a reasonable distance.

[[Youth today.]]

Wade just scoffed. Millennials had their form of entertainment, White had his own. Both had a tendency to drive Wade a little crazy at times…

Maybe it was just paranoia from having been stalked--

[Or because you told him about Creed…]

\--but Parker kept glancing over his shoulder. Wade managed to duck behind corners or blend in with the morning rush hour crowd, and trailed a little further back. 

At the entrance to the subway, Parker hesitated, stepping to the side rather than obstructing the flow of traffic, and stared down the staircase. Probably anyone would be a bit cagey in his position, after how his last train ride went.

Parker shook himself and turned towards 6th instead, where the light had just changed to green. A few cars drove past, and then Parker stepped off the curb, and without thinking Wade nudged through the crowd and darted out to grab him by the elbow, and yanked him back.

With a yelp, Parker spun around and slipped out of Wade’s hold, eyes going even wider when they fell on Wade. “It’s _you_,” he said, frustration and bewilderment in his voice. “What the hell?”

“What were you thinking?” Wade asked.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the psycho killer that you told me is after me,” Peter sassed back.

Wade’s exasperated expression was sadly lost under his mask. “I meant, are you trying to get yourself killed? The light is green.”

Peter gave him a look in return like he’d sprouted an extra head. And honestly, it wouldn’t have been the first time. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Look,” Wade said, and dropped down on one knee to take Peter’s undone laces in either hand. “I’m already trying to protect you from Creed. I didn’t consider you needed protection from _yourself_.” He pulled the bow neat and started on the next shoe. “Loop, swoop, and pull.”

After a stunned silence, Peter jerked his foot away. “I can tie my own shoes!”

“Then why the fuck don’t you?” Wade asked.

“Are--I--” Peter spluttered. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, pulling it closed around his t-shirt, which was an ornate frame around a raven, and written beneath, _don’t quoth me on that_. “I was gonna do it once I caught the train, what does it even matter to you, you freak?”

“It matters,” Wade said, inching forward to tie the other shoe, “when you trip over your own feet, faceplant in the middle of the road, and get yourself run down by an errant MTA driver.”

Peter pressed his hand to his forehead. “I know how to cross a street on red, Deadpool. I’ve lived in New York my entire life.”

“Yeah, well, those bus drivers give no quarter.”

[Nothing like the civilised public transit workers in the Great White North.]

Wade finished tying the second shoe, and his knuckles caught on Parker’s jeans, pulling them as he went, and exposing his sock. The vivid red with black webbing was unmistakable. “Petey!” Wade clasped his hands to his chest. “Spidey socks! A man after my own heart.”

Peter danced back a few steps and bent over to straighten out his jeans, hiding his sock again. “No need to be embarrassed. Spidey kicks ass, in fact--”

“As fascinating as your obsession with Spider-Man is, I have to get to work,” Peter said. “So I’m going to cross the street, if you can contain yourself for five fucking seconds.” When Wade moved to follow him, Peter glared over his shoulder, but didn’t say anything further. At least this time he waited for the crosswalk to change to white before dashing into the street.

When they drew near Stark Tower, Peter turned on him so fast Wade actually felt compelled to take a step backwards and hold his hands up in defense. “I hope you’re not planning on following me in there, because there’s no way Friday would allow it, and anyway, I think security has me covered.”

That was debatable. Sure, maybe with all the various attacks on his building, Stark had stepped up his own security measures, but then again, he’d moved the team upstate. But Peter was clearly frustrated, and Wade was _trying_ to make up for his previous behaviour, so he could throw him a bone.

“Sure. I mean, Creed would probably just slice and dice his way through them, but they might slow him down enough for me to catch up,” Wade said.

Peter’s brows drew together. His lips pursed up in a combination of anger and concern, and Wade hadn’t noticed them much before, but now all he could think was that they were a very nice set of lips, really, objectively. Wade could see himself getting distracted by that mouth. In fact, it was moving, but his brain wasn’t registering the words coming out.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Oh my god,” Peter said under his breath, then sighed and spoke louder, enunciating each word. He sounded remarkably like Spider-Man when he took that tone. “Please go away. Mister Stark has the best security money can buy, and Friday would lock the tower down like a fortress if it was attacked. I don’t need your help.”

Wade patted his head, half-expecting the kid to flinch away, but he just looked up in annoyance. “I read ya loud and clear, little buddy.” He stepped a few feet away to a bench. “I’ll just hang out here, and keep my distance.” He gave Peter a little salute and dropped down to the bench with his arms draped over the back, crossed one leg over the other, and leaned back.

Peter turned away, throwing his arms in the air, and Wade didn’t have super hearing, so he didn’t quite hear what he said, but the meaning was clear enough. Wade was good at wearing people down. Now _that_ may have been one of his super powers.

The morning passed tediously. There was a steady flow of traffic through the front doors, but from his spot, Wade could see everyone going inside, and the security desk. Creed was good at what he did, but there was no hiding his hulking frame with any amount of makeup or fancy suits. If he tried to enter, Wade would spot him. 

Surveillance in and of itself had never been Wade’s forte. He bored easily, and there wasn’t a lot about his current setting to provide distraction.

[[Which defeats the whole fucking purpose, anyway.]]

In the late morning, he entertained himself by perusing the food carts out front in the plaza. The shawarma was deeply mediocre, definitely not up to the Halal Guys standards, and the taco guy was possibly actually trying to kill people. But Wade had to admit he was both horrified and mesmerized by the cart called Mash & Grab, selling such fare as Ice Cream Jerky and Pork Tarts. He ended up breaking down and buying the Fruit Loop Quesadilla, and didn’t end up regretting it. The guys might be fucking geniuses.

The monotony was broken by a tour group coming by in a giant bus around noon. The sign on the side proclaimed it to be _The Empire State Strikes Back Tour_, and promised stops at sights figuring in every major altercation between superheroes and their various foes throughout the city. It pulled to a stop in front of Stark Tower, and a bunch of middle class, middle Americans piled off in their ballcaps and I Heart NYC shirts, oohing and ahhing, and snapping photos with their selfie sticks.

Already Wade wasn’t the most inconspicuous, between his suit and multitude of weapons strapped to him. The fact that he hadn’t had the cops called on him yet today spoke either to the obliviousness of New Yorkers, or the oversaturation of superheroes. Maybe both.

But it didn’t take more than a few minutes for him to draw the attention of this crowd. As the guide stood in the plaza with a megaphone and started to recount the history of the building, one lady spotted Wade. Her eyes went wide and she prodded the man next to her, turning to whisper urgently in his ear and pointing. A ripple went through the crowd, each drawing the attention of the next, until there was enough of a murmur to distract from the guide. She faltered, a confused look on her face, until her gaze fell on Wade.

“Well, it looks like we’re in for a treat, folks!” she announced. “Our very own friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man!”

Wade had to do a double-take, just in case Spider-Man had finally deigned to show up, but no, the woman was indeed referring to him. He didn’t get it, personally. Colour-scheme aside, that was, but Spidey was in blue and red half the time, and anyway, by that token, it would make a lot more sense for people to mistake Wade for Matt.

[Just consider us lucky not to be in the DC ‘verse.]

“I wouldn’t mind being mistaken for Batwoman,” Wade said.

[[I think Atrocitus is more likely.]]

Wade sneered in distaste. “There will be no Lantern Corps fuckwads of _any_ colour, thank you very fucking much.” He shuddered. Much better to distract himself by conjuring a mental image of himself in Batwoman’s suit--and maybe he was no Ruby Rose, but he thought he could pull it off, White’s opinion be damned. 

“Spider-Man!” the guide called out to him, waving her hand excitedly.

[[This could be fun…]]

“Ah, what the hell.” It wasn’t like there was anything better to do. And who knew? Maybe if word got back to Spidey, he’d actually show up again. If only to chastise Wade for pretending to be him. He jogged over, giving a jaunty wave as he went.

“What an honour,” the guide gushed. She was a cute thing, with long blonde hair and big blue eyes, and a nametag that read Kayla.

“I had no idea he was so _big_,” a woman commented under her breath, in a tone Wade could only describe as thirsty. “All those photos of him in the Bugle make him look scrawny.” 

Wade tossed a look in her direction, and the woman made a whimpering noise. “Wanna picture?” He was swarmed on all sides with cellphones shoved in his face. “Should we do a pose, Comic Con-style?”

It was hard to keep up with the chatter, from the teenage girl asking if she could feel his muscles to a kid who couldn't be more than five asking for a hug, and the guy wanting to know if he could pose with one of his "ninja swords.” It was a novel experience, to have people clambering for his attention instead of running away in horror.

“Spider-Man,” Kayla said, several minutes later, when everyone in the group had snapped several shots each. “Maybe you could tell the group a crime fighting story.”

“Oh boy, do I have a tale for you.” Wade rubbed his hands together in glee. Where to even begin?

[I mean, if we’re going for wackiest exploits, I’m a fan of jiving to James Brown, but I think that’s been done to death.]

“Gather ‘round kiddies, and let me regale you with an exciting tale of daring-do, involving an asteroid, an Italian scientist, and a surf-off against my nemesis Captain Maximum.”

“Deadpool!” 

For a split second, Wade thought his gambit had paid off, and spun around looking for Spider-Man. But it was only Peter, hurrying towards him. There was a security guard at the door behind them, eyeing the crowd warily.

“Sorry guys, but I gotta--” Wade jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Peter. “Duty calls.”

There was a chorus of _thank you, Spider-Man_s, as Kayla herded the crowd towards the bus. Wade waved to them as they boarded, only for the motion to be halted by the hand on his arm, jerking him around. Peter _had_ to be hitting the gym at some point in his absurdly packed schedule.

“I hadn’t even gotten to the part about the penguins, yet,” Wade protested.

“Did you just tell them you were--” Peter stopped abruptly, lips pressed tightly together, and that drew Wade’s attention back to that mouth. He should look away. He was supposed to be protecting the kid, not lusting over his mouth, ffs. Lusting belonged to Spidey. And Cable. And Black Widow. And...well, it was a long list, but Parker was not on it. 

“In my defense, I didn’t tell them I was anyone,” Wade said. “They assumed. And you know what happens when you make an assumption.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter said in a weary tone. “You make an ass out of you and umption.”

“Peter!” Wade exclaimed. “I am thoroughly delighted by your knowledge of preconceptual pop culture references!” 

“There’s this thing, it’s called the internet, and I can use it, you see, to access such sites as Netflix--”

“Alright, you little whippersnapper,” Wade said. “You’re definitely still young enough to bend over my knee.”

Peter went bright red at that and spun away from Wade. ““I have to get to my next job, where, by the way, pretending to be Spider-Man will _not_ do you any favours.”

Wade grinned after him. He’d let the teasing go for now, but it was delightful how easy it was to get a rise from the kid. He fell into step with Peter as he made his way down the sidewalk. It was only about a fifteen minute walk from Stark Tower to the paper.

When they came to a stop at a corner waiting for the light, Peter snuck a sidelong look at him, not at all stealthily. “So, I, uh...I asked Friday about Creed.”

“Huh. I didn’t expect that Stark just let anyone chat it up with fancy Alexa,” Wade said.

“Mister Stark is a very generous employer,” Peter said, almost aghast at the suggestion otherwise, and when Wade just stared, his shoulders sank a bit. “Though, I mean, I don’t think he meant for us to be asking her about that kind of stuff.”

“No shit,” Wade said, with a snort. “So what did she have to say?”

“Um.” Peter lifted his head and swallowed harshly. “She didn’t go into a lot of detail, but she told me he’s called Sabretooth. And then I was able to do some research online, about his run in with the X-Men a few years back, where Psylocke and Archangel were very badly injured. And how he stormed Rand Enterprises in 2014. It said he killed seventeen people and critically injured over thirty more. That it took Iron Fist, Luke Cage, and Jessica Jones to take him down. There were pictures.”

Peter looked pale and honestly shaken, so at least he was finally taking the threat seriously, at any rate. Wade nudged him as they started walking again. “Yeah, well, Osborn doesn’t want you dead.”

[Are you trying to be reassuring? Because you fucking suck at it.]

“I find that hard to believe,” Peter said. He waved a hand in Wade’s direction. “Between your kill count and Creed’s, I can’t see how that can possibly be true. He could have hired anyone, with the money he has, and he chose _murderers_.”

Wade didn’t normally flinch away from the truth of what he did, but the way Peter said it, well, it stung, especially when he was trying to help. “Hey, all I was doing was using a mild sedative.”

Peter gave him a baleful look. “Yeah, right. You know I study chemistry, right? There is no such thing as a safe knockout gas. They’re just as likely to permanently damage your lungs or flat out kill you, as render you unconscious.”

“Not _just_ as likely,” Wade muttered. 

“Anyway.” Peter cleared his throat. “My point with all this was, I get that Creed’s a big deal, and I guess I...appreciate that you’re looking out for him and all. I mean, I’m sure Spider-Man could take him, but Creed doesn’t seem super worried about collateral damage, and I don’t want anyone else getting hurt because of me. But if you’re gonna follow me around or whatever, can you maybe ditch the suit?”

“Uh. Sure,” Wade said, oddly meek, which was definitely an unsettling feeling.

“Thanks,” Peter said. “Because you’re freaking people out, and Jameson would flip his shit if he saw you.”

“Yeah, the man is a gigantic dick, but my god, those photos he publishes.” Wade groaned at the memory. “I had thought there was no way Spidey was just as perfect in real life as in those shots from the Bugle, but my god, Peter, have you seen his…”

He trailed off as realisation washed over him. The photographer. P. Parker. Wade smacked himself in the face and let out a long, low gasp. “Holy shit, you’re him!” 

“What?” Peter stuttered, looking around himself like he was being cornered. “I’m not--I mean--”

“You’re P. Parker. _You_ take those delicious pics of my boy.”

“Oh! OH!” Peter’s shoulders sagged and all his breath left in quick exhale. “Yep, that’s me!”

A strange sound escaped Wade.

[You sound like a dying elephant.]

“Fuuuuck. So not only do I screw things up royally in front of my idol, but I go after his favourite paparazzo. No wonder he was so johnny on the spot!”

Peter just stared at him for a long moment, taking his face on an epic journey of expressions, before finally muttering, “Do you ever feel like your life was ripped from the pages of a comic book?” 

Yellow just _cackled_, and Wade had to just take a second to appreciate the profound irony of the situation. “You have no idea,” he said.

“Look, just please, don’t cause any problems for me here, okay?” Peter asked, as the Bugle came into sight around the corner. “I need this job.”

Wade gave him a cheerful thumbs up. “You got it, baby boy. I’ll go full stealth mode.”

Weirdly, Peter did not look particularly relieved by that. He sighed, and fished around in his hoodie as they approached a Mexican food cart. “Can I get a rice and bean burrito with hot salsa and guacamole?” he asked, and passed over a five dollar bill.

“You not seriously going to eat that,” Wade asked.

Peter gave him an incredulous look. “Why not?”

“Are you kidding me? First of all, don’t even get me started on it’s claim of “authentic” Mexican cuisine,” Wade said, pointing out the sign. 

The vendor gave them a dirty look, and Peter hip checked Wade out of the way. “Sorry, please don’t pay any attention to him.” He took his burrito from the guy and pushed Wade further down the street. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Says the guy about to put actual trash into his body, seriously, it’s so bad for you, do you even _care_ about the lack of sanitation in those things?”

“Nope.” Peter unwrapped the foil, and before he could take a bite, Wade snatched it out of his hand. “Give it back, that’s my lunch, you asshole.”

“I can’t let you eat this,” Wade protested. “I’m supposed to be protecting you, and that includes from food poisoning.” With that, he shoved the thing in his mouth. 

Peter made a sound of outrage, grabbing for it and missing when Wade dodged back a few steps. “What the fuck!?”

Wade managed to get at least half of the burrito in the first bite, and spoke around his mouthful, sending bits of rice and cheese spraying. “I have super healing, you do not.”

“I--” Peter stopped speaking abruptly, mouth opening and closing several times, cheeks bright red with anger. Before he finally just made an incoherent sound and stormed off towards the Bugle, without further comment. It was sorta cute, how someone so tiny and sweetly dispositioned could radiate that much silent rage.

Wade finished the rest of the burrito in two bites, threw the foil in the trash, and dusted off his gloves. Second time saving Petey from himself in the one day, and it was barely even noon. How had the kid made it to puberty, let alone adulthood?

Now, time to change his approach, so as not to cause him any further trouble. Wade whipped out his cellphone and brought up Dopinder’s name. Ever the eager beaver, he answered on the first ring. “What can I do for you, Mister Pool? Are we driving into danger today?” There was a faint tremor of hopeful anticipation in his words.

“Whoa there, Nelly. Just need you to do me a little favour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, thanks for sticking with me. I really wanted to post this chapter almost a week ago, but we had a doggie emergency. Our old lady is pushing 14, and was having some scary symptoms that we thought were a stroke. Luckily it's something else that we can treat with medication, but she needs a lot of extra tlc. On top of that, my kiddo got his flu shot and has since been having a lot of soreness and has gotten a cold, so he needs a lot of tlc. And *I* have vertigo, that decided to kick in this week, which limits a lot of what I can do. Basically, my life has been the very epitome of "when it rains, it pours" the past week and a half.


	8. Chapter 8

Someone had heated up their leftover soup in the breakroom, and Peter didn’t even _like_ minestrone, but he was so hungry that the scent alone made his stomach growl. What a dick, man! Who did that? Stole your food right out of your hand and ate it right in front of you? That had been his last five bucks in cash, too. Now Peter was going to have to use his card to get something on break, which he hated. At least payday was tomorrow.

But break would have to wait, and so would his stomach. As soon as he’d sat down at his desk, he’d been faced with almost a dozen photos that needed editing and adjusted to the layout. The freelance money was okay, and nice for having a little extra when he needed it, but this was the work that earned Peter a solid paycheck.

About fifteen minutes in, a delivery person arrived with some heavenly-smelling takeout, going to the receptionist with his bulging bag. Peter eyed it longingly, his mouth watering. He couldn’t tell what it was, exactly, but from the scent of cumin, chili powder, and refried beans, he could make a guess. 

Peter redirected his attention stalwartly at the computer screen. He could deal. It wasn’t the first time he’d been so hungry, between May trying to make ends meet right after Uncle Ben’s death, and her skills, or lack thereof, in the kitchen.

Of course, when his mind wasn’t occupied with his hunger, it kept drifting back to the images he’d found when researching Sabretooth. He hadn’t so much asked Friday, as hacked Shield yet again. It was a good thing Mister Stark had recently been preoccupied with Doctor Banner, or else he’d definitely have noticed two hacks in as many weeks. As it was, Peter was going to have a lot to answer for when he finally noticed.

“Excuse me.”

Peter had been so absorbed in his thoughts he hadn’t noticed the man approach. Now he lifted his head to see the delivery guy standing in front of his desk, bag of take out held out in one hand, and a to-go cup in the other, for Peter to take. “Um, I didn’t order that, sorry.”

“Mister Peter Parker?” the guy asked.

“Yes,” Peter answered, hesitant.

“Mister Pool asked me to deliver this to you, and to tell you, um.” The man paused, eyes darting up and to the right, then spoke again, as if reciting, “these are the best fucking chimichangas you’ve ever had in your life! Oh, and also Rosita’s has an A grade for cleanliness.”

Peter’s stomach growled again, obscenely loud. “This is for me?”

“Oh yes, Mister Pool felt dreadful for depriving you of your lunch,” the man said effusively.

“Yeah, I bet he was real torn up over it.” Peter took the bag from him and unrolled the top to peek inside. The scent hit him stronger, and, well, it was hard to stay pissed off over his five dollar burrito in the face of it. “Tell Deadpool thanks, I guess.”

“Of course, Mister Parker, sir.” The guy bobbed his head and placed the cup on Peter’s desk.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any cash to tip you,” Peter said, pulling open his drawers to see if there was some loose change.

“That is quite alright. I’m always eager to help a friend of Mister Pool’s.” The man held out a hand, palm out. “A high five will more than suffice.”

“Oookay.” Peter slapped his palm to the man’s, and was rewarded with a bright smile. 

“Have a pleasant day!” he said, and scurried off.

“You too!” Peter called after him. 

The guy was barely out the door before Peter started tearing into the bag. There was a Styrofoam container with three chimis, and a quick sampling told him one was chicken, one was steak, and the other was chorizo, with heaping sides of rice and refried beans, and a bunch of sauces in little containers. But there was also a bag of chips with queso and guac, and half a dozen taquitos with a variety of fillings, and at the bottom of the bag he found a container of churros sprinkled in chocolate and cinnamon. 

Peter practically inhaled the food, because besides being absolutely starving, Deadpool was right: these were the best fucking chimichangas Peter had ever had. He rinsed them down with the pineapple agua fresca, which might be his new favourite drink, if only there was a way to caffeinate it. 

He didn’t know if Deadpool actually expected him to be able to eat it all, or if there was meant to be leftovers, but with his metabolism, Peter had no trouble packing it all away. After the initial hunger faded he slowed down and let himself savour the rest. As he was finishing up his churros, and his photo editing, a meeting let out, and everyone spilled out in a hurry, as one often did when offered a chance to escape from Jameson.

Peter ducked his head, like maybe if he didn’t look in Jameson’s direction, he would be invisible. Okay, it wasn’t the greatest plan. And of course it failed immediately. “Parker! A word?”

Dutifully, Peter shoved back his chair and got to his feet, weaving his way between the maze of desks to stand before his boss. Jameson smacked the back of his hand against the paper in his hand. “Know what this is?”

“This morning’s edition?” Peter hazarded a guess.

Jameson scoffed “Smart, kid. Notice something funny about the photo we ran today?”

Peter glanced down at paper, fighting a grimace at the headline _Gun-Toting Spider-Man Terrorizes Students at ESU._ The photo, however, was an older one, used a few weeks ago in a piece suggesting that Spider-Man was forming a cult via his Youtube followership. Remembering it, Peter had to refrain from rolling his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mister Jameson, I’ve been really busy with school work and my internship.” Not to mention the whole situation with Harry and Deadpool, the last few times he’d been out in his suit he hadn’t thought to set up a photoshoot.

“You’re the one who came to my office, begging me to buy your photos,” Jameson said. “So go get me some damn photos I can use, Parker. The Bugle didn’t get to selling two and half million copies a day by reprinting old photos, do you understand?” 

Peter made his profuse apologies and scurried off. It was hardly ideal to go shoot some photos _now_, but he didn’t know when else he’d get the chance. He checked out the window looking out onto 39th Street, and there was no sign of Deadpool. Maybe he’d done as Peter asked and gone home to change his clothes? 

At any rate, it might be a good idea to change into his suit and and find Deadpool to have a talk about Sabretooth, and what they were going to do when he showed up. Peter’s opinion only held so much weight as a civilian, even if he was the one Sabretooth was after. But between his violent record and Deadpool’s, Peter was anxious about how it would play out. If Shield’s files were right, both of them were damn near indestructible, and he didn’t want to see how much damage they could to do the city trying to kill one another. Or him, for that matter.

So Peter would go get Jameson his shots, and then he’d hunt down Deadpool. They could come up with a plan to trap Sabretooth long enough for Shield or...Peter shuddered, the MRD, to sweep in and lock him up. But Peter wouldn’t really wish the latter on his worst enemy. Just thinking about them made him rub at his neck in apprehension. Those collars of theirs were basically torture devices.

Shaking off the thoughts, Peter gathered his bag from his desk and headed out. Good thing he’d thought to grab his camera this morning, though he hadn’t brought along any extra lenses. He could still make it work. Down on the street, he took in the skyline, neck craned back in search of the best spot for a shot. Normally he didn’t shoot so close to work, but there were some cool places nearby. The Copper Buildings, for one.

Peter took off in that direction, casting glances around for Deadpool, but he was definitely gone, at least for now. His senses weren’t tingling even a little. Strange, given that he’d wanted Deadpool to leave him alone, but now that he had, Peter felt oddly exposed. He _could_ handle Sabretooth himself. Probably. Peter shook his head and threw back his shoulders. Definitely.

The Copper Buildings were even more impressive up close, towering above him crookedly when Peter approached. The copper glinted in the late afternoon sunlight, in contrast to the parts already starting to patina. It would make for a striking colour shot if he posed against the exterior, and then he could also get some shots from the roof, of the skyline in the background.

On the roof, Peter drank in the view. The location gave a great view of the East River and the Empire State Building depending on which way he faced. He could go ahead and get several shots, even build a web between the towers. Okay, maybe that was more about his own personal desire because it would look cool and be fun, than what Jameson might actually want, but it would be a neat photo, anyway.

Peter was busy considering the potentials, in the process of toeing off his shoes, when Deadpool’s voice startled him. “I leave you alone for two fucking hours, and what do you do?”

“H--how the hell do you keep doing _that_?” Peter shouted. When Deadpool tipped his head to the side in questioning, he clarified. “Sneaking up on me.”

Deadpool waved a hand. “Oh, don’t take it so hard. I’ve trained a long time to be super stealthy.”

Yeah, except the people he normally snuck up on probably didn’t have super senses. Peter crossed his arms, expression sour. “Somehow, you don’t strike me as the stealthy sort.” He lifted a hand to begin ticking off on his fingers. “Storming into my class weapon draw, charging the public library, gassing an entire train car.”

“That’s not very sporting of me, sneaking up on people. I should at least give them a fighting chance.”

Peter snorted in amusement at the idea of Deadpool’s good sportsmanship. “What are you doing here, though?”

“I,” Deadpool said, coming closer to take Peter by the upper arm, “could ask you the same question young man.”

“I’m _trying_ to do my job.”

“On the roof of a fucking of a fifty story building?”

“Are you--” Peter was starting to sound like a broken record, and yet he couldn’t help himself. “Are you freaking kidding me? There’s a barrier, I’d have to climb up over the edge to even risk falling. People go out on roofs in New York all the time. There are restaurants. And parties!”

“Yeah, those people don’t have a cold-blooded murderer just looking for the perfect, gift-wrapped opportunity to drop you five hundred feet to your death,” Deadpool said.

Peter rubbed at his temple. “Look, I’m a photographer, remember, and my boss wants some new shots.”

Deadpool’s demeanour shifted on a dime, knees together, feet splayed, hands clasped to his chest like some anime tween. “Oh, shit, are you doing a Spidey photoshoot? Is he coming here? Petey, please tell me Spidey is coming.”

Well, wasn’t this a fun series of ridiculous situations Peter kept finding himself in? “I, uh, texted him, but I haven’t heard back.” Fuck, he was the _worst_ at lying.

But Deadpool didn’t seem to notice. He wilted, briefly, before perking up again almost instantly. “If you boss wants superhero shots, you can take mine.”

Peter didn’t mean to burst out into laughter, really. He prided himself on his manners. But he couldn’t contain himself. “Sorry, I mean, just.” Peter gestured at him with one hand, from head to toe, as if that explained it all, and Deadpool at least didn’t _seem_ offended.

Then Peter considered the article in this morning’s paper, and one from a couple of days ago, ranting about the havoc Spider-Man had been wreaking on campus. Except Jameson hadn’t wanted to hear from anyone, least of all Peter, that just because he had a similar suit to Spider-Man’s didn’t mean it _was_ Spider-Man. There was no proof otherwise, and anyway, Jameson loved portraying Spider-Man as the bad guy at any and every opportunity.

“Actually,” Peter said, head tilting to the side as he took Deadpool in. “You know what? Yes, let’s do it.” He could still get some photos of Spider-Man later, and in the meantime, he could give these to Jameson to maybe get him to switch the object of his crusade against mutants. At least for a week or two. He might have felt a little bad about it, except that Deadpool was no stranger to bad press. The Bugle might seem almost complimentary in comparison.

“Seriously?” Deadpool squealed. “Can we use costumes? And props? Because I’ve got this naughty nurse outfit I’ve been _dying_ to try out.”

Peter’s cheeks heated at the image that conjured. How did Deadpool just _say_ stuff like that, completely casually? “I’m not sure that’s what Jameson is looking for right now.” At the dejected slope of Deadpool’s shoulder, he hurriedly added, “but maybe next time?”

“Nah, I get it.” Deadpool ran both hands down his torso and over his hips in a liquid slide that was far too sensual for a man of his size to pull off, and yet somehow, he did. “Their readership couldn’t handle all this sexy.”

“Yeah,” Peter scoffed, turning away quickly as his blush spread. “That’s definitely it. Um. Maybe we should relocate, though. I mean, this setting is more Spider-Man than Deadpool.”

“Yes, off the fucking roof.” Deadpool’s hand landed on Peter’s back between his shoulder blades and gave him a gentle push in the direction of the door. “And please, tell me, what is a more _Deadpool setting_?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean--” Peter sputtered, before remembering, oh yeah, this was the guy who’d been trying to kidnap him last week, manners be damned. He didn’t really care if Deadpool took offence. “I don’t know, a blood-soaked alleyway?”

“That’s fair.”

“Where were you, anyway?” Peter asked, when they were in the elevator going down. “I didn’t see you around the Bugle.”

“I was laying low,” was Deadpool’s cryptic response. “I didn’t want to get you into trouble with your job. I know what it’s like when your boss is on your ass.” He paused, as if listening to someone else, and said, “True, but I wouldn’t mind it if Colossus did.”

Peter considered that non sequitur for a long minute, but it didn’t make any sense, no matter how long he thought about it. “Well, uh. Thanks for that. And for lunch, it was really good.”

“Couldn’t leave you high and dry,” Deadpool said. “Growing boys gotta eat. Besides, if I let you starve to death, I'd basically be doing Creed's job for him.”

_Your original job,_ Peter politely did not point out. “I was trying to feed myself, before someone stole it.”

“Oh please.” Peter could almost imagine the expression beneath Deadpool's mask, and wondered if he’d ever actually see it in person. “As if you didn’t prefer Rosita’s to that roach coach burrito.”

Peter’s stomach gave a little lurch. “Please don’t call it that. It’s perfectly fine. I eat there all the time, and I’ve not gotten sick yet.” Though maybe not anymore, now that Deadpool had put the thought in his head.

“Would you prefer barf buggy?” Deadpool asked, gleeful. “Gut truck?” A gloved finger poked at Peter’s cheek, and he swatted Deadpool away. “I’m not sure I’ve actually seen someone turn green before.”

“Fuck off.” Peter shoved at his shoulder, and Deadpool stumbled into the wall.

“You are a very strong geek,” Deadpool told him, rubbing his arm from the impact. “You clearly ate your Wheaties.”

“First of all, geeks can be buff,” Peter said, while simultaneously cursing himself. He had to stop showing off his strength around Deadpool. “Second, as you’ve pointed out before, I am a nerd. There is a distinction.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your Star Trek panties in a bunch.”

Peter was about to remind Deadpool that he had no room to talk, having boasted about his Spider-Man underoos, when he realised that no, Deadpool had said that to Spider-Man. Fuck, he needed to get his head on straight. It was too confusing trying to keep the two separate halves of himself straight. It had never been a problem before, when he'd spent time around people who didn't know his alter ego. What was it about Deadpool, that he kept forgetting himself, getting too complacent? 

“Any good nerd knows to match his undies with his socks,” Peter said instead, throwing a smirk in Deadpool’s direction.

Deadpool gasped. “Spidey undies? OMG, twinsies.”

There, now Peter knew it, too, in case the discussion of Deadpool’s underwear came up again. It hadn’t been his intention with his comment, but whatever. Peter had to resist the urge to smack himself in the forehead. Seriously, what was his life right now?

“It really is a shame he didn’t show up for your photoshoot today,” Deadpool was saying. “You could have shot us both, together. Oooh, maybe he could have been Dr. Sexy, and given me a checkup…" his voice trailed off in a dreamy murmur. "Poked me with his needle."

“I didn’t think you two were, um.” Peter cleared his throat. “Like that?”

“Me and Spidey?” Deadpool made an obscene gesture with his fingers. “Like that? Not yet, but hope springs eternal in the human breast.”

Peter arched a brow. “Alexander Pope? Doesn’t seem very on brand for you.”

Deadpool shrugged. “I have layers, Petey. Smelly, oniony layers.”

And yeah, Peter was beginning to get that. "Okay, Shrek," he said with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that wasn't too abrupt an ending of a chapter, but I wanted to get this up tonight.
> 
> Just a warning that chapters might slow down a bit because of the time of year is busy for our family, and also because I've signed up for Spideypool Big Bang, and I since that has an approaching deadline, I'm going to be focusing more on that fic. I've already written the next few, so hopefully that will hold you over while I focus on the SPBB. Also, still looking for ideas for it. I've got one I'm starting with, but I'm not sure it is going to pan out.
> 
> Also, thanks to everyone who was so kind and supportive of my family stuff in the comments. The kid and dog are doing better, and my vertigo has calmed down for now.


	9. Chapter 9

Shortly after they walked out onto the street, Wade’s phone began to serenade him with the dulcet tones of Cable's ringtone, Cher warbling _If I Could Turn Back Time_.

“Got word on Creed--”

“Man, I just _love_ that name. He’s a retired cop turned PI, willing to go to any length to hunt down the men who killed his partner.”

Cable made a grunting noise. “You want to hear this or not?”

Wade straightened up. There was something about Cable’s voice that made you wanna stand at attention--

[Heh heh]

\--whether he was physically present or not. “Sir yes sir.”

There was a sigh over the phone line. “He was spotted down in the Bowery, coming from the direction of the Bunker.”

“Fucking A, he’ll be armed to the goddamned teeth.” Wade flung his free hand in the air. “This is the problem, working with people like Hien who will sell their shit to anyone willing to pay.”

“Uh huh.” Cable sounded disinterested, and like he was eating something crunchy. “Isn’t that basically what you do? That’s why this Parker kid is in trouble in the first place.”

“I have standards,” Wade huffed.

“I feel that making a joke right now would be too easy,” Domino muttered.

“Am I on speaker phone?”

Three voices echoed _yes_. 

They’d come to a stop beside Dopinder’s idling taxi. Beside Wade, Peter was watching his side of the conversation with interest, and it reminded Wade of the whole purpose of the call in the first place. “Look, just meet me at the Bunker in twenty, okay?”

Wade hung up before Cable could tell him to fuck himself. He’d show up anyway.

“We’re gonna have to put the photoshoot on hold.”

Peter clasped a hand to his chest. “I don’t know what I’ll do with myself,” he exclaimed in faux dismay.

“No more fucking rooftops!” Wade pointed at him sternly. He opened the door to the backseat and grabbed the bag inside, then thrust it towards Peter. 

Peter cautiously peeked inside, eyes going wide at the sight. “This is...it had to cost at least two grand.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Wade gave a dismissive wave. “Price of telephoto lens? 2k. Your photos of Spidey’s ass being taken _safely_ from the ground? Priceless.”

The look of exasperation Peter gave him was tempered by his obvious gratitude. It was a cute combo on the kid. “You know, I survived almost twenty-one years until you showed up.”

[[We can only hope he’ll make it another week now that you’re here.]]

Wade patted the top of the cab. “Dopinder’ll take you back to work, and afterwards, he’ll make sure you get back to campus safe and sound.”

Peter narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You’re going after Creed? Don’t you think you should get Spider-Man’s help?”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”

With that, Wade shoved Peter, pink-cheeked and sputtering, in the back seat of the cab. As he watched Dopinder drive off, he realised this meant he now had to find _another_ way to his destination. Few cabbies were as understanding as he, when it came to Wade’s eccentricities. 

The kid might have had a point about Spidey, if Wade had any way to get in contact with him. 

[[Swinging through the city has to be faster than dealing with traffic.]] 

[Not to mention the added bonus of getting to wrap your legs around that sweet specimen of manhood…]

“I really need to get his digits the next time he shows up.”

In a pinch, a menacing growl and a wave of his gun could make up for a cabbie lacking Dopinder’s cheerful demeanour. Traffic was a bitch, though. The sun was starting to set by the time he made it to the Bowery. The whole gang was waiting for him at the Bunker, and they’d already started the party. Hien looked uneasy between Domino’s blade, Cable’s gun, and Weasel’s twitchiness.

“Wilson,” Hien said in greeting. “Are you responsible for these assholes coming in here throwing around their weight?”

“You have a guy in here earlier?” Wade cast a look at Weasel. “Do we have a picture of him?” Weasel shrugged and Wade made a sound of annoyance. “Canadian. Mostly Invulnerable. Awesome name.”

“And what the hell is a mostly invulnerable Canadian supposed to even look like?” Hien asked, hands thrown up in the air.

“Don’t,” Cable said in a low warning tone.

“Like a burn victim in a red and black suit,” Weasel muttered.

Hien rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell you the same thing I already told them. There was a guy in earlier and he bought enough to equip a small army, and just the same as when you or anyone else shops with me, I didn’t ask any fucking questions. You got the cash, I got the goods.”

“You are the problem with our society today,” Weasel said in disgust, waving his gun around.

“You bought that here last week!” Hien snapped back.

“Okay, okay, do you have a camera around here?” Wade asked.

Hien gave him a withering look. At that moment, Domino’s knife slipped from her fingers and clattered noisily to the floor. Wade had known her long enough to know nothing she ever did was by accident, even if it seemed to be. She was effortlessly graceful unless her powers worked counter to that. 

As she crouched to pick up her knife, Wade grabbed Weasel by the arm and dragged him down to the ground. “Get down!” Cable moved with those lightning reflexes of his, sweeping Hien’s feet out from under her as he went down.

A split second later, a hail of gunfire sprayed through the window, shattering glass and bullets through the air. “Stay down,” Wade hissed, and made his way to the window, keeping low.

On the streets it was utter chaos, people running in every direction to avoid the gunfire, and at least two car crashes from those speeding away from the scene. Wade ducked his head out just fast enough to get a glimpse at the rooftop of a building across the street, and got a bullet to the cheek for his effort.

The next thing he knew he was blinking awake to a concerned looking Cable crouched over him. It was kinda touching that the old man actually cared. Wade reached up to feel at the gaping wound left by high velocity ammunition. Maybe wound wasn’t quite the right word for it. It felt like half his face was missing. “‘Ow baa ish it?”

Weasel make a gagging sound and turned his head away, and Dom gave him a smile that was more of a cringe and a hesitant thumbs up. “You’ll be fine.”

"'Dere goesh our pg-13 rating."

"Come on," Cable said, put upon, dragging Wade away from the window.

The shop looked even more like a warzone than usual. Wade had to question Creed’s methodology. Attacking them in a black market gun shop? He picked up one of the discarded AKs that had been knocked off it’s shelf in the gunfire and gave it a little stroke down the barrel. “Ish ‘ere a ack ay ow of here?”

“This way.” Hien led them behind the counter where there was a trap door in the floor. It led to a basement filled with even more stock than above. Crate after crate of ammunition and grenades, walls lined in rocket launchers and laser weapons, and--

“Is that a fucking Chitauri Staff?” Wade breathed in awe. Oh hey, his tongue was mostly whole again. That was a relief. Domino raced him across the room to the staff, so of course Wade managed to trip over a conveniently crooked stack of boxes and land in a pile of shotgun shells. Dom crowed in victory and Wade gave her a dark look. “You’re using your powers for evil.”

“You dickbags are paying me for all the shit you’re taking,” Hien said, eyeing Weasel pointedly. He was laden down with bandoliers of 7.62 and 5.56, with a machine gun in each hand and belt of grenades around his waist, like some pasty, sickly Rambo.

When they emerged from the basement to the alley out back, it was eerily quiet. Wade shoved Weasel back in the door with Hien. “Just stay out of trouble.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Weasel muttered, clutching his guns to his chest.

Dom was already making her way down the alley to the right and Cable headed for the fire escape. No one ever waited for any fucking orders around here. “Great plan, gang!” He called after them.

[I’m sorry, do you think you’re in _charge_?]

Wade ignored the derisive laughter in his head and took the left. With Dom’s luck, that probably meant he was going to end up riddled in bullets, but better him than her anyway. He came around the corner to Broome Street which was now emptied of foot traffic with cars abandoned still running in the street.

Wade kept low behind the row of parked cars as he made his way down to the building Creed had been shooting from. As far as he could see, he wasn’t there anymore. “Wilson!” Cable barked. “Behind you.”

A shot fired from above, and Wade ducked behind the nearest vehicle, turning to bring up his gun. Cable had caught Creed in the shoulder. Wade’s shot hit him dead centre in the forehead, but he barely grimaced. It broke the skin but didn’t make it much further, bullet crumpling from the force of Creed’s skull. Hmm. 

Creed reached up to pick it off his forehead and craned his neck up to look at Cable with a toothy grin. “Nate.” He spoke in a gravely drawl like he could out-Batman Christian Bale. “I didn’t know you had a horse in this game?”

“You didn’t think I’d try to stop your sociopathic ass from killing a kid?” Cable growled back.

“Um, you might wanna watch what you’re saying to the Kettle there, Pot,” Wade said.

Creed's long golden waves were like a mane around his shoulders, shaking when he laughed, and he managed to make even that sound sinister. “Gotta say I’m surprised at you Wilson. Thought you was a guy who got shit done. But I appreciate you passing the job along to me. Osborne’s a generous employer.” He brought up his gun, pointing it at Wade’s chest. “And he’s gonna pay me double for taking care of you.”

“Yeah,” Wade scoffed. “Good luck with that. _I’ll_ pay you double if you manage it.”

A flash of white shot out and then Creed’s gun was jerked out of his hand and sent flying. “I’ll take that!” Spider-Man crowed, swinging in to land on top of the van between the two of them.

Creed’s whole face changed into something more predatory and he dropped his hands down by his side with a metallic sound that Wade was all too familiar with, having fought alongside Wolvie before. “Osborne will pay a whole lot more for the Spider.” He sprung into action just like his namesake, lightning fast as he leapt at Spider-Man.

“Fuck,” Wade cried, as the two went toppling off the edge of the van, Spidey pinned to the concrete. Wade emptied his clip in Creed’s back. Blood bloomed on the cream coloured jacket he wore, but it didn’t stop him bringing up his claws to slash at Spidey’s chest. 

“That...isn’t...helping,” Spider-Man grunted, as he caught first one, then the other of Creed’s wrists in his hands, holding him off. It seemed like he should’ve been able to throw Creed off easy, with what Wade knew about his strength, so why wasn't he? Creed lunged with all his weight, claws coming perilously close to Spider-Man’s face. “Love your manicure," Spidey quipped. "Adamantium tips has to be pretty pricey."

Fucking mutants, man. Wade tossed the gun aside and drew a katana instead, advancing on their position. Spider-Man got his feet up against Creed’s chest and kicked him off. He went flying back in a arch and caught himself with his claws on the side of the van with a grinding sound of torn metal. Then he hefted the van overhead and hurled it towards Spider-Man, who caught it with minimal effort and set it aside more gently. 

Creed was looking to take advantage of Spider-Man’s distraction to charge him, but Wade got between them first, bringing up his katana to swipe at him. Creed blocked with his arm, flesh giving way until steel met adamantium. The blow reverberated back up the blade into Wade’s hand. Creed wrapped his free hand around the edge of the blade and twisted, pulling the katana from Wade’s grip and throwing it backwards over his shoulder. 

He didn’t even seem to notice the blood dripping freely from his palm as he dropped on all fours and propelled himself at Wade’s waist, tackling him to the ground. His claws gouged the flesh of Wade’s shoulder and up over his neck, tearing through muscle and scraping bone. Before he could get to the jugular, Creed was jerked back by webbing on each arm.

“Can we just talk about this?” Spidey shouted. 

Creed snarled at him. “Nothing to talk about. When I take a job, I finish it.” Spider-Man fired webs fast as he made a circle around Creed, but between the claws and adrenaline-fuelled strength, Creed broke free before Spidey could bind him.

“No point trying to appeal to his morality,” Cable said to Spider-Man, appearing at Wade’s side and hauling him to his feet with a hand under his armpit. “He doesn’t have any. And he’s not gonna stop until that boy is dead, along with us.”

“Well your bullets aren’t working,” Spider-Man called out. He used a web to a lamppost to swing through the air and kick Creed back. The force of it was obvious, but Creed just landed on all fours like a cat and rose to his feet. “And neither are my webs, so do you have a better idea?”

“Can’t you call in your Avenger friends?” Wade asked. “Cap and Iron-Man would be here in a jiffy, I bet we could sell tickets to a Hulk vee Sabretooth match--”

“No!” Spider-Man held out a hand, like he thought Wade was actually going to whip out his phone with Stark on speed-dial. “I can handle this myself.” Weird, given how frequently the news reported on them working together, but not the time to question it.

Creed responded by pouncing again, dodging the bullets from Cable’s gun, and feinting to the side to avoid Spider-Man’s webs. Just as he was about to make contact, a blast of blue light caught him in the side, sending him flying end over end. The blast exploded in a fireball when it impacted with the shop across the street. 

Wade spun around to see Domino aiming her Chitauri Staff with a smug grin. She blew across the tip for show. “You’re welcome.”

“Nice of you to finally join us,” Wade said. With a crash, Creed landed over a block away, putting a dent in a car which immediately began to bleat in alarm. “I need to get me one of those.”

“No you don’t,” Dom and Cable said in unison.

“JFC, do you guys rehearse that shit?” Wade snapped. “Anyway, you’re not the boss of me.”

Creed prowled closer, powerful muscles flexing in his arms that had already healed. “The adamantium is new,” Cable said. “Like he needed another advantage in a fight.”

“Weapon X prides themselves on never knowing when to quit,” Wade said cheerfully, with a sweeping gesture down his body.

Domino raised her staff and Creed stopped in his tracks. His gaze darted between the four of them, and then he turned and took off down a side street on all fours.

“I need to get to Petey before this asshole finds him.” Wade jerked a thumb in the direction Creed had gone.

“That’s okay,” Spider-Man said quickly. “I have him covered.”

“Aww, don’t be that way, Spidey-babe,” Wade cooed and sidled closer. “I can help, I’m a team player.” He held up a hand in Dom and Cable’s direction before they could open their mouths to say otherwise.

Spider-Man crossed his arms over his chest and the whites of his mask narrowed. “I don’t need your help! I can handle it myself.”

“Like you just handled it now?” Wade asked.

“IDK, I think it went...okay-ish?” 

Cable looked around them pointedly at the overturned van, the glass and blood littering the sidewalk, the missing chunk of building smouldering on the asphalt. In the background, the car alarm continued to blare. He turned back to Spidey with an arched brow that spoke volumes.

“No one died.” Spider-Man lifted both hands palm up. “It could be worse?”

“Jesus, you two are perfect for each other,” Cable mumbled. “Who the hell is this kid anyway, that someone would hire Creed to go after him?”

Wade shrugged. “Osborne is desperate, and Parker’s some kind of genius.”

"Fucking Weasel,” Cable said. “He and I are going to have a little chat about how he picks his clients.” He strode off towards the alley.

"This is what I'm saying!" Wade yelled, hands in the air.

“Well, thanks for your, uh, help,” Spider-Man said, backing away from them with a double thumbs up. “But I’ve got the Parker situation handled.” He didn’t give Wade a chance to argue, thwiping a web towards the roof of a nearby building and swinging off.

Wade cupped his hands around his mouth. “Can I get your number?” Spidey responded with a bark of incredulous laughter before disappearing behind a taller building.

“Look at us.” Domino came to stand at Wade’s side, leaning on the staff. “Playing with the big league now.” She nudged their shoulders together, and when Wade made a reach for the staff, smacked the back of his hand. “You should go after your boy there; I’ve got Creed.”

“Oh you ‘got’ him, hmm,” Wade echoed, scoffing.

Dom gave him a condescending look as she backed away. “I’m sorry, who just sent him running?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to follow Cable, calling after him.

“Luck isn’t a superpower!” Wade shouted at her back.. “It’s just _cheating_!”

[[And once a-fucking-gain you are left alone and without a means of transportation.]]

Wade sighed and surveyed the street.

[Oooh, shiney!] 

There was a silver Audi glittering in the sun, left idling in the chaos with the door open like it was practically gift-wrapped for him. And for once, he wasn’t going to forget his fucking ammo, thanks to all the extra he’d shoved in his pouches in the Bunker. He holstered his Eagle and retrieved his katana, wiping the blood on a discarded bookbag, then slung the AK over his shoulder. 

[[And what, exactly, do you expect your bullets to do a second time around that they couldn’t this time?]]

Normally, Wade did his best to ignore that scathing tone, but White did have a point. 

Wade slid behind the wheel. “One fucking thing at a time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break, and shortish chapter. Life is getting back on track and so is my writing, post Spideypool Big Bang. I'll be posting the next chapter soon, and I'm working on my Spideypool Kink Bingo, too. Thanks for your patience.


	10. Chapter 10

It was getting dark by the time Peter made his way back to campus. He’d managed to shake Dopinder once he’d gotten back to the Bugle so he could follow Deadpool, but once Peter left the building after work, the cab was waiting for him. Dopinder was such an earnestly pleasant guy, Peter felt obligated to go with him. At least his chatter about the girl of his dreams distracted Peter from his own problems for the duration of the drive.

“Would you like me to escort you to your dorm room?” Dopinder asked, when he pulled up to the curb at the edge of campus.

“I think I can make it a couple hundred yards on my own,” Peter told him with a grin.

“Very well, Mister Parker. I’ll just remain here and keep an eye out.” Then his voice dropped in volume to a raspy whisper. “If Sabretooth shows his face, my vehicle can function as a deadly weapon.”

Peter paused half out of the door. “That’s really not necessary, Dopinder. I’m sure Spider-Man can take care of things himself.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Dopinder said, cheerful again. He patted the dashboard. “It wouldn’t be the first time she’s tasted a villain’s blood.”

Unsure of how to respond to that, Peter gave Dopinder an uneasy smile and backed away. He hoped Deadpool wouldn’t actually let him go after Sabretooth with his _car_. He didn’t want to think of the chance a cab had against someone with an adamantium skeleton.

Once in his room, Peter drew his curtains closed tight before changing into his pjs, all too aware of the fact that if he wasn’t already, Deadpool would soon be watching from the rooftops. Though he'd protested against the whole thing, he had to admit it gave him a measure of reassurance to know that Domino and Cable were out there following Creed, and would be able to let Deadpool know if he came their way. Still, best to stay away from other people for now. Peter shot a text to Ned and MJ saying it was safer for them not to hang out tonight. Then Peter grabbed his laptop and climbed into bed with all his parents’ old notes. 

There had to be _something_ he could do. The choice between watching his blood turn Harry into a monster and letting him die was a particularly cruel one on the part of the universe. Sometimes Peter felt like his life had been nothing but a series of shitty choices with him constantly making the wrong one. Starting with Ben dying, and having to fight Liz’s dad, to Mysterio’s death, and Norman’s transformation into Green Goblin.

Well, not this time. This time Peter was going to find another option. It was hard to focus though, with his attention split between this problem and the one with Creed. He should come up with an idea of how to deal with him the next time they came face to face. Maybe he could work on his webbing fluid to make it even stronger...but strong enough to bind adamantium?

Peter dragged a hand over his face, rubbed at his tired eyes. Bracing one sticky hand on the wall to keep from falling out of bed, he leaned over to open the minifridge and snag an energy drink. Time to get to work.

It was around four in the morning when he was jarred awake by a bolt of lightning glowing white around the edges of the curtains, followed almost immediately by a rumble of thunder that shook the building. Peter groaned and pushed himself up against the headboard. He must have dozed off re-reading his parents’ notes on using his own blood as the catalyst in his experimentation.

Now rain pelted against the window with enough force to drown out any of the usual dorm noises, like his neighbour’s snoring, or the porn the guy across the hall liked to watch way too loud late at night.

Peter twitched back the curtain to watch the paths it traced on his windowpane. It was unpredictable and soothing, and if he let it, it would lull him back to sleep. But he’d already slept at least five hours, which was more than he’d managed in the past few nights, and he needed to finish up some homework that he’d put off in favour of research.

As he was pulling back, his eye caught on a now familiar glimpse of black and red on the roof of the dorm next door and Peter turned to look head-on at where Deadpool was camped out in the pouring rain, gaze trained on the entrance to Peter’s dorm.

Maybe it was the early hour, and the fact that Peter was still mostly asleep. Or maybe it was that he was still feeling useless and miserable. Or maybe it was all of that, combined with the way Deadpool had flirted with Spider-Man and tied Peter’s shoes. Or maybe it was the touching, if misguided attempts at ‘saving’ him with lunch and a camera lense worth more than everything he owned. Or maybe it was the bullet to the face Deadpool had taken in the fight with Creed earlier. Whatever the reason, Peter found himself unlocking the window and sliding it up.

The movement caught Deadpool’s eye and he turned to face him. Peter leaned out, arms crossed on the window ledge. “Are you seriously going to stay out there all night?” He had to shout over the pouring rain--did Deadpool have super hearing?

“Eh, I’ve spent the night in worse places,” Deadpool called back.

Peter shook his head. The ends of his hair were already wet from stray drops of rain. “If you’re going to be lurking around like a giant creeper anyway, you might as well do it in here.”

There was a sort of resounding silence that followed his offer, and Peter felt the absurd urge to rationalise the invitation. He bit his tongue against the impulse. After a moment, Deadpool stood up, and jumped off the edge of the building. Even having seen it before, Peter still wasn’t accustomed to the sight.

He slammed the window shut and got up from the bed, grabbing his keycard on the way out the door. He had to give it to campus security, fixing the lock on the door so quickly. Not that it would matter to Creed anymore than it had to Deadpool.

It was late, and there was no one else around, so Peter took the stairs a whole floor at a time, leaping from one landing to the next, and made it to the door just as Deadpool was limping up the walk. Peter braced the door open for him. “There’s an elevator in that building, you know.”

Deadpool waved a hand. “Elevators are for the weak.”

Peter laughed. “I’m glad you feel that way, because this building does _not_ have one. So, um. Enjoy going up three flights with your broken tibia.”

“Are you sure about me coming up there?” Deadpool asked, the whites of his mask looking oddly earnest. “Once you invite me in, you might never get rid of me.”

“Pretty sure that’s vampires,” Peter said with an eyeroll, and led the way to the stairwell.

“Nice jammies, by the way.”

Peter glanced down at himself, and then flushed bright red at the sight of Thor, Cap, Hulk, and Black Widow staring back at him, with Iron Man in place of pride right in the middle. Peter crossed his arms over his chest, though it did little to obscure the image. “They were a gift.” A gag gift from Mister Stark for Christmas last year, to be specific, but perfect on a cold night like tonight, made of soft, warm fleece.

“Needs more Spidey and Hawkeye, but I approve.”

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re mocking me or not,” Peter said, eyes narrowed.

Deadpool gasped, hand to his chest. “Mock the Avengers?! I’d _never!_”

Upstairs, Peter dug a mostly fresh towel out of his closet and tossed it to Deadpool, who’d been tracking his own personal stream throughout the entire building. Then he grabbed two mugs from the shelf above his microwave and two pouches of hot chocolate mix.

“What are you doing up?” Deadpool asked, as he toweled off. “Isn’t it time for all good nerds to be in bed?” 

Peter scoffed. “Clearly you’ve not spent a lot of time on a college campus.” His milk was past expiration, but it smelled okay, so he went ahead and risked it, stirring it in with the mix. They both had healing abilities, anyway.

“Well, you’re right about that,” Deadpool said cheerfully. “I have to admit, stalking you has been a major letdown, Petey. I was expecting a lot more keggers and toga parties and driving Deathmobiles out of cake-shaped parade floats.”

“Wow, you’re really showing your age there,” Peter said with a laugh. “My late nights include a lot less drunken hazing and double secret probation, and a lot more genetic experimentation and writing papers about why I’m such a failure.”

While the mugs were heating in the microwave, Peter rifled through the notes he’d been studying earlier, putting them back in order. He quickly covered up the notes he’d scribbled on his web fluid, even though he doubted Deadpool would know what it was. His shoulders sagged as his gaze fell on the formula his mother had made in the margin of one of father’s papers. If only it didn’t require _his blood_. 

Peter scrubbed at his eyes, like if he rubbed hard enough, he could stop them burning from exhaustion, and maybe a little bit from wanting to cry. “Anyway, I fell asleep while I was going over my notes. I gotta finish up my homework before heading to the Bugle, or I’m not gonna have time for it later, because after that I have to head over to Stark Tower to test out a formula I’m working on, and maybe none of it’s going to matter anyway, because Creed might just kill me first. So how’s that for a glamourous snapshot of campus life?

“Far be it from me to give anyone advice on, well, anything,” Deadpool said, almost delicately. “But maybe you should just give Osborn what he wants?”

Peter snorted humourlessly. It was either that, or just break down. If only it were that simple. The microwave beeped and Peter busied himself with removing the mugs and giving them another stir each, before handing one over to Deadpool.

“Do you even know anything about molecular biology?” he asked.

“Uh, only what I’ve learned from watching every episode of Orphan Black,” Deadpool said, hands braced on his hips. “So... everything.”

That earned him a laugh, and Peter could see the way Deadpool’s mask stretched over his mouth in an answering grin. The pictures of him in his file had shown a strikingly handsome man, but there were no photographs of him after his mutation. Peter couldn’t help but wonder what was under the mask, now.

“Oh, in that case, I bow to your superior knowledge,” Peter said. “I mean, that’s basically an honorary doctorate.” He dropped down at his desk and kicked out the extra chair for Deadpool. 

“The genetic research at Oscorp has always pushed the ethical boundaries. I mean, we all know they’re responsible for Spider-Man’s mutation, and that’s just their biggest public mistake,” Peter explained.

“A beautiful mistake,” Wade sighed.

Peter rolled his eyes pointedly. “Beautiful or not, they’re lucky his body reacted in the way it did. I mean, just look at Doctor Connors! His research had the potential to change millions of lives for the better, but working at Oscorp, he was more concerned with immediate results than worrying about pesky things like trials. The same could have been true for Spider-Man. And the same could be true for this research.” He laid his hand on the stack of papers.

“You think I don’t want to help Harry?” Peter dragged a hand through his hair. “I just don’t want to be responsible for another Goblin.”

Deadpool nodded along, like he actually understood. And maybe, after Weapon X, he did. He looked down at the cup in his hand and then back at Peter, and shrugged. “You know, I’ve been trying to clean up my act, and everyone’s still treating me like one of the bad guy which is bullshit, because I was only ever taking out the trash no one else could be bothered with.” 

His voice grew rougher the more he spoke, edged with anger and the potential for violence, and he seemed to realise it and rein himself back in. “Then here’s Osborn and he’s telling me this is something that could help people, and big old dumbass that I am, I see this as an opportunity to prove that I’m one of the good guys. He fucking played me, and I let him.”

Deadpool shook his head and let out a little self-deprecating snort. “And I finally get to meet my fucking idol, and now he thinks I’m a fucking screwup--”

“You really think that much of Spider-Man?” Peter asked. Sure, he had his fair share of fans, but a lot of times other superheroes and mutants tended to not take him very seriously. It was weird to have someone in a suit fangirling him.

“Are you kidding?” Deadpool sounded scandalised. “You should know better than anyone, being privileged to take those shots of him--speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to ask if you have any extras you’d be willing to share. Candids, outtakes, I’ll take anything.” How did his mask look hopeful?

“Sure, I can email you some,” Peter found himself saying, in mild disbelief.

“Thank you,” Deadpool said gravely, hand on Peter’s shoulder. “But for real though. Spidey’s not like those establishment heroes. They only come out for the big guns, but Spidey, he’s there for the little guy. Out on the streets every night. And okay, I don’t exactly understand the whole not killing thing--”

Here Peter made a squeaking sound, and Deadpool held up a hand. “I’m just saying, it would be a lot less collateral damage if he’d just killed Mysterio or Ock the first time, instead of letting them escape prison over and over, BUT!” He spoke louder, over Peter’s sputtering sounds of protest. “At least he stands by his beliefs. I can’t tell you how many lectures I’ve heard about _not murdering people, Deadpool, that’s wrong_ from people who are perfectly fine with it when it’s Stark or Wolvie doing the killing.”

Peter closed his mouth and considered that for a moment. “So _you_ like him because he doesn’t kill people?”

“It’s just one aspect. He’s the whole package, Petey.” His tone was almost dreamy, which was just ridiculous. Then he sagged in on himself like a balloon running out of air. “And I fucked it up bad. He’s never gonna let me work with him now.”

“Well, one thing I know about Spider-Man is that he doesn’t judge people on their worst mistakes.” Which was true, or at least Peter liked to _try_. Which meant it was time for Spider-Man to give Deadpool a second chance.

“You seem like a pretty okay dude, Petey. No wonder Spidey likes you. Yesterday I was trying to gas you, and now here you are inviting me in from the rain and giving me hot chocolate and trying to reassure me. Weirdest mark ever.”

Despite everything, Peter felt a smile tugging at his lips. “I somehow doubt that’s true.” He took a sip of his cocoa, which was still probably too hot to drink, but that was between him and his healing factor. Deadpool still hadn’t touched his own. “Aren’t you gonna drink yours?” 

“Uh.” Deadpool looked down at the mug in his hand like he’d completely forgotten it was there. “Look kid, I think I’ve put you through enough emotional distress for one lifetime. You don’t need to be exposed to all of this, too.” 

“Please.” Peter scoffed. “I’m a _scientist_, you know. I don’t think your mutation is going to send me running for the hills. Besides, I’ve seen you following me around campus in a hoodie. I know you go without the suit sometimes.” Maybe he hadn’t actually seen Deadpool’s face at those particular moments, but that was neither here nor there.

Deadpool made a grumbling noise, and Peter kicked his bare foot against Deadpool’s boot. A second too late he considered that might be a little too daring for your average college student, but Deadpool didn’t seem to register it. “You gonna let my fine, gourmet hot chocolate go to waste?”

“Not the Swiss Miss!” Deadpool gasped dramatically, and then, under his breath, “don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

Peter averted his eyes as Deadpool reached for the edge of his mask and lifted it up over his jaw. From his peripheral vision, Peter could see the colour of the skin as it was revealed. He took another hasty sip of his cocoa, toying with the handle of the mug, and was aware of Deadpool taking a drink from his own.

“So is that why you’re here?” Peter asked.

“Huh?” Deadpool sounded at a loss. “To scar you psychologically as extensively as I am physically?”

Peter scoffed, and risked a look. The only light in his room was a dim reading lamp above his bed, but it was still enough to see by. Deadpool’s face was mostly shadowed, with all the creased and pockmarked scars. His eyes were cast downward, shoulder’s hunched.

Of course Deadpool’s face was shocking, but really only having known what he’d looked like before. As far as faces went, it was one Peter could see easily growing used to. No amount of scarring could completely cover the underlying structure of full lips and high, pronounced cheekbones, and expressive eyes. But he could only imagine what it must be like, to have woken up to his old reflection in the mirror every day his whole life, and now be faced with this version.

“I mean, to prove yourself. To Spider-Man,” Peter clarified. “Is that why you’re protecting me?”

“Wow, nice to know what you think of me, Petey,” Deadpool said. 

Peter bowed his head, speaking into the rim of his mug. “Sorry. That was shitty to say.” 

Deadpool gave a jerky, one-shouldered shrug, and Peter was just a huge asshole, reinforcing what everyone had already told him. That he was incapable of being a hero. “It’s fair, though,” Deadpool said in a joking tone that did little to cover the hurt, and then a silence fell between them.

_For fuck sake, Peter, at least Deadpool is _trying.

It felt weird to be referring to him as Deadpool in his mind, when he was sitting here close enough that their knees would knock if either of them moved, and Deadpool was quietly blowing on his hot chocolate in between little sips. Of course, Peter wasn’t supposed to know the name behind the mask.

“Um, so, is it verboten to ask your real name?”

“It’s not exactly like it’s any big secret,” Deadpool answered. “The mask is more about protecting my ego than my identity.”

“So…” Peter trailed off.

After a beat, Deadpool held out a hand. “Wade Wilson, at your service.”

Peter took the gloved hand in his own and gave a single shake and firm squeeze. “Peter Parker. I like this, fresh start. You trying to kidnap me, me insinuating you were incapable of altruism, water under the bridge.”

Wade snorted, and Peter smiled back helplessly at the sight. It changed his entire face, really, brightened him. Wade held up his hands in an approximation of scales. “I don’t think they’re exactly on the same level.”

“You’re right,” Peter said, gravely. “I mean, how can I possibly make it up to you? Would public flogging suffice?”

“Kinky,” Wade said. “I’m not sure you’re a nerd at all. I think I might have pegged you all wrong.”

Peter pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth and made a sucking noise. “Now who’s being kinky?” 

The look Wade gave him made Peter regret his words. Knowing and teasing. Peter wasn’t good at flirting at the best of times, and definitely not when sleep deprived and faced with a strange man in his room who somehow, despite all reason and circumstance, caught him completely off-guard. 

“Ah, anyway.” Peter cleared his throat and turned his chair to face his desk. “I’ve gotta finish this up.” He fiddled with the clasp of his laptop to have something to do.

Wade stood up and placed the mug on the microwave stand. “Thanks for the drink.”

“No!” Peter said, too quickly. “I didn’t mean--you don’t have to go.” Wade’s hairless brows shot up in surprise. “It’s pouring out there, and besides with Creed coming after me, it makes sense to stay close, right?”

Honestly, Peter knew it was probably better from a strategic perspective for Wade to be outside watching for Creed’s approach. But he also knew he could handle Creed himself, if it came down to it. Plus, the idea of being alone right now just made him feel weirdly queasy. Like the walls might collapse in on him with the weight of everything going on pressing on them.

“You really don’t have to worry about me,” Wade said. “It’s not like I can catch my death out there. At least, not permanently.”

Peter scowled. “That’s a stupid reason to sit in the freezing rain. Just because you don’t stay dead.” He grabbed the remote for his tv and threw it at Wade, who caught it against his chest. “I like having something on in the background while I work anyway.”

He set to opening his laptop and bringing up his lab notes, aware of Wade watching him like he had grown an extra set or three of arms. But after he’d begun to type, Wade finally lowered himself back in his chair, and a moment later the tv clicked on.

“Hey, Pete.” Wade’s tone caught Peter’s attention, and he turned to face him. Wade’s eyes were wide and earnest. “About the trying to kidnap you thing. You’ve been pretty cool all things considered. I want you to know, I won’t let Creed or Osborn get to you, Spidey or no, I promise.” He held up a pinky, and Peter quirked a smile as he hooked his own through it. 

“Also,” Wade added, almost _meek_. Granted Peter didn’t really know him very well, but it was still jarring, given his general disposition. “I don’t know how much you and Spidey hang out, outside of your photoshoots, but could you just do me a solid and not spill the beans on this...” He waved a hand over his face, “situation?”

Peter’s chest gave a little pang, the source of which was a little difficult to pin down, because there were _so many_ things that bothered him about it. That Wade thought so little of Peter that he’d just go around gossiping about his face. That he thought so little of his so-called idol that he thought Spider-Man would judge someone based on their appearance. That apparently Wade didn’t care if Peter saw his face, because in the grand scheme of things, he didn’t even matter.

“Sure thing,” Peter said finally, tersely.

Wade was apparently oblivious to Peter’s tone. “You think I got a chance there?” he asked.

Peter had absolutely no idea how to answer to that, so he just found himself laughing nervously instead. That was all the answer Wade needed, though, who gave resigned nod of his head and turned back to flipping through Netflix.


	11. Chapter 11

Sometime shortly before sunrise, Peter got himself to his feet and began digging through his closet. “I’ve gotta shower and head to the Bugle,” he explained, resurfacing with a bundle of clothing and towels and a shower caddy. He looked Wade up and down with an apprehensive expression, like he thought he might try to invite himself along. Well, only to see the kid blush, anyway.

“Don’t worry, I texted Dopinder to bring me some civvies. Then Jameson can’t give you a hard time for hanging around your Friendly Neighbourhood Merc. Instead all your coworkers can judge your serious lack of taste in the company you keep.” Wave gave him a thumbs up.

Peter sighed, pausing in his doorway. “Anyone who judges you based on how you look can get fucked.”

“Aww, that’s some updated language on the after-school special speech.”

“I’m serious.” Jesus, he was really cute with that pout and his hair all mussed, and without those stupid glasses. Less nerdy, more twinky. “But if you don’t wanna ditch the suit, or if you wanna go home and get some sleep or something, Spider-Man has me covered for the day.”

“And where the hell is Spidey, anyway?” Wade wondered, gesturing around them.

“I’m sure he’s watching,” Peter said.

Wade wasn’t so sure about that. For all his protests yesterday that he could handle the situation himself, he seemed to have taken a pretty laissez-faire approach to protecting Peter.

“Spiders...lurk. In the dark,” Peter added lamely.

“In that case,” Wade told him cheerfully, “two heroes are better than one.”

Apparently, Peter knew when to admit defeat. “Whatever. _I_ don’t care. Just please don’t get me fired.” With that, Peter made his way out into the hall. Wade watched him go with amusement and the faintest interest. It was hard _not_ to think of Peter naked when in the next room over he was stripping out of his clothing. The kid kept himself pretty-well covered between his layers and baggy clothing, Wade couldn’t help but wonder what he was hiding underneath.

[[You want to know what everyone looks like naked. You want to know what Bea Arthur looks like naked!]]

[Uh, who doesn’t?]

“First of all, fuck you, she was a total fox.” Wade jabbed a finger in White’s direction. “Second of all, seeing them naked can tell you a lot about a person.”

Like Peter must have a nice musculature underneath the extra weight he carried around his middle, with how strong he was, right? Wade shook himself out of those thoughts and went downstairs to meet Dopinder. It was eerily silent on the campus this early in the morning. The rain had passed, and now a heavy fog hung over the ground. He took in his surroundings, surveying the various rooftops and balconies visible from Peter’s building, but there was no sign of Creed or Spider, or any life at all.

Except Dopinder, shuffling up the walk, stooped over under the weight of the duffle he carried over his shoulder. In his free hand, he carried a drink holder, two cups steaming in the cold air.

By the time Peter came back into his room, sadly already fully dressed, Wade had himself changed into more casual attire. The jeans were seriously lacking in pocket room, but the looseness of the hoodie allowed him to hide a few weapons underneath.

“You look so…”

[[Horrifying? Vomit-inducing]]

“Normal,” Peter finished. He had a little frown between his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t even guess you were a homicidal maniac.”

“Breakfast,” Wade said, choosing to ignore that slight. He shoved one of the cups and a bag into Peter’s chest.

Peter looked down in surprise and inhaled deeply of the scent coming out of the cup. “I would say you don’t have to keep feeding me, but honestly, I’m okay with this.” After taking a sip, eyes closed in something close to bliss, they snapped open again to regard Wade suspiciously. “How do you know my favourite drink?”

“Stalking you, remember?”

Rather than the censure or anger Wade anticipated, Peter just rolled his eyes and fished in the bag for his breakfast sandwich. “Mmm, the unexpected benefit of being menaced.”

“Now don’t go looking for another.” Wade wagged a finger at him. “I’m the only sugar daddy--I mean stalker you’re allowed to have.”

“You are so stupid,” Peter breathed into his cup, as he took another sip. Then he began to shovel one heavy textbook after another into his bag, and tucked his laptop in another pocket, along with his precious notes. Wade didn’t really go in for the science stuff, and the notes were in some sort of shorthand anyway, but just looking at them, Wade could tell Osborn hadn’t been exaggerating Peter’s abilities. Bonafide genius.

[[And you were just going to gas him and hand him over to a maniac.]]

Wade’s lips flattened in a grim line. If he was going to be serious about this hero thing, he might have to consider _not_ taking jobs from Weasel anymore. That was, if Cable’s Come to Jesus talk hadn’t already scared Weasel into toeing the line.

“So, Bugle first?” Wade asked, grabbing Peter’s bag before he could.

Peter grabbed after it. “I’m not an invalid. I can carry my own stuff,” he protested, but Wade slung it over his chest and held on tight. 

“Aw, c’mon Petey, what’s the good of having your own personal bodyguard if you don’t let him do the heavy lifting?”

There was a war going on with Peter’s face. For the most part, the kid was an open book, which made it all the more interesting when something had him biting his tongue. Eventually he gave in without saying anything, shoulders slumped as he grabbed his jacket. “Be careful with that,” he grumbled, as he held the door open for Wade.

“I gotta ask,” Wade said, as they made their way down the empty staircase. The other students in the dorm probably wouldn’t be awake for even the earliest lectures for at least another hour. “What’s with the busy schedule? Full load of courses, a job, _and_ an internship?”

Peter gave him a baleful look. “I’m _poor_, Wade.”

Wade made a clicking sound with his tongue. “See, maybe once upon a time. But I did my research on you, remember. Ever since you won that Stark award, looks like things turned around for your family. Your aunt has a cushy job running FEAST, and that scholarship of yours pays for everything.”

“This might be difficult for you to understand, with the amount of blood money you’ve raked in, but normal people have to work normal jobs to get anywhere in life.” Peter’s tone of voice suggested this was a conversation he’d actually had before.

“Mister Stark has been very generous with this scholarship and my internship, but I can’t take advantage of his generosity indefinitely. Or my aunt’s. You know, when she and my Uncle Ben took me in they didn’t have much, and after he died she worked so hard to keep a roof over our heads. Now that I can work for myself, I’m not going to be a burden.”

“Wow, that’s a mighty heavy martyr complex you’ve got there,” Wade teased. “Need help carrying it, too?”

Peter flipped him off, and Wade tossed back his head to laugh. “Anyway, I like my jobs. Yeah, Jameson can be a tough boss, but I’m good at what I do. I probably won’t have time for my photography once I finish school, so why not enjoy it now?”

Wade whistled. “Got your whole future planned out at twenty. Jesus, when I was twenty I was...fuck, I was in Yemen.”

“Oh,” Peter said quietly. “Right. That must have...been...shitty.”

“Eh. It wasn’t all that bad. Beautiful place, amazing food. Twenty-year old me thought he was a badass. We’re talking serious delusions of grandeur, like I was going to sweep in and save the whole damn world from Al Qaeda. Got to take out some really bad guys. Now Iraq, _that_ was a shit show.” 

“It’s kind of crazy how much has changed since then,” Peter said. “Twenty years ago that was what war looked like. And now it’s aliens and mutants and AIs.”

“Hasn’t changed that much, kid. We had all those back then, too. It was just a lot more on the DL before Stark put on the suit and brought it all out into the light. And all that talk about privatizing world peace. Well, I think the Middle East would have something to say about that.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, glum, looking down at his feet as they walked.

“So what was so important that you had to be up at the asscrack of dawn to work on it?” Wade patted the bag full of Peter’s work resting against his hip.

Peter looked a little like a deer caught in the headlights at that question, actually stopping in his tracks for a second before starting up again. Jeez, the kid was strange.

[[Which, coming from you…]]

“Just a project for Stark Industries.” Peter shook his head. “But that’s on hold until I figure out this thing for Harry. I just wish things hadn’t gone the way they did with us.” His teeth dug into his bottom lip like there was more he wanted to say, but wouldn’t.

[[Greaaaaaaat topic change there, buddy. Really distracted him from all his problems.]]

[Just say something inappropriate and vaguely sexual. You’re good at that.]

“Not exactly the tone I’m going for,” Wade muttered.

“Who are you always talking to?” Peter demanded, examining gaze directed at Wade. It was strange having someone looking so closely at him without a hint of disgust. But besides the brief surprise at the reveal of Wade’s face last night, Peter didn’t seem to even notice his appearance. “Do you have an earbud or something?”

[[Well that’s a convenient excuse your dumbass has somehow never thought of.]]

“The voices in my head are a little more aggressive than most,” Wade said. “Mutations, man. Wolvie gets super-healing with badass boneclaws and hasn’t aged a day in a hundred years. Meanwhile I get this shitshow,” here he swiped a hand over his face, “and these assholes with their constant colour commentary.”

“Could be worse,” Peter said. “I mean, look at that Cyclops guy. Does he have to wear that visor to bed? And on the topic of Wolverine, I have to imagine those claws are not always the most convenient.”

They arrived at Dopinder’s cab, and Wade half-expected Peter to put up a protest, preferring to walk, but he climbed in without complaint. “Morning Dopinder.” 

“Good morning, Mister Parker.”

“I told you, you can call me Peter.”

“Of course,” Dopinder said, bobbing his head in that amicable way of his. “As you wish, Mister Peter.”

Peter gave Wade an exasperated look, but didn’t comment any further. Instead, he turned to survey the street. “It’s kind of weird, isn’t it, that Creed hasn’t come after me yet.” He glanced over his shoulder at Wade. “Why go after you, first?”

Wade frowned. He didn’t remember mentioning his tussle with Creed to the kid, but his memory wasn’t what it used to be. Or maybe Dopinder had let it slip. He was absolute shit at keeping secrets. 

[That face of his wasn’t meant to tell lies.]

“He was just testing us before. He knew me and Spidey would be protecting you and he wanted to see our strengths and weaknesses. Probably coming up with a plan.”

Peter sunk down in his seat a little, arms crossed, lip caught between his bottom teeth again. There was a furrow between his brows that Wade sort of inexplicably wanted to smooth his finger over. Someone like sweet little Petey shouldn’t have all this shit piled on his shoulders so young.

They rode in silence, nothing but Dopinder’s cheerful Indian pop music streaming through the car, until it was interrupted by Britney, issuing from Wade’s pocket. He fished his phone out to strains of _She’s so lucky, she’s a star_.

“Dom, tell me something good,” Wade said in answer. “Through some series of ridiculous Rube Goldberg-esque circumstances you’ve brought about the death of Vladamir Putin?”

“We tracked Creed to a compound outside town, like the moral antithesis of your pals in the swanky mansion upstate. Swarming in security.”

“I know the very place,” Wade said.

“He managed to give us the slip while we were playing with the hired guns.”

“See, this is what happens when you rely on made up super powers as opposed to actual skill.”

“Uh huh,” Dom said slowly, unconcerned. “I’ll be happy to go up against you one on one, if you want a demonstration of my skill.”

Wade sighed. “You know my heart is already taken, you incorrigible flirt.”

“Look, I just thought you might like a head’s up, since Creed’s probably headed your way now. Call me when you need my fake super power to come save your ass.” With that, Domino hung up.

“Oh my god, it was so irresponsible of me to have stayed on campus, if Creed could have attacked me there,” Peter moaned.

“I really need to turn down the volume on my phone,” Wade said, flipping through his settings.

“But it’s not like I can go back to my Aunt May’s and put her in trouble. Damn!” Peter ran a hand through his neatly combed hair, rifling it. “I probably shouldn’t go to the Bugle, either. What was I thinking?” 

Dopinder caught Wade’s eye in the rearview mirror, giving him an urgent sort of expression as if to say _do something_.

[Yeah, thanks, like we weren’t aware…]

Wade patted Peter’s shoulder a couple of times, and when Peter didn’t seem to mind, let his hand rest there. “Petey--”

He dropped his face in his hands. “This is all my fault, this whole situation with Harry. If I could just--”

“Peter!” Wade said, more firmly, and Peter lifted his head, meeting his eye. “Shitty people making shitty choices is not your fault.”

Peter looked agonised, like he wanted to protest differently, but physically couldn’t make the words come out. Finally he took a deep breath and let it out. “Fuck,” he moaned. He fished out his phone and typed out a text Wade couldn’t see then shoved it back in his hoodie pocket, then almost immediately pulled it out again. “I need to go to Stark Tower.”

“That’s not going to stop Creed, you know? You saw what he did at Rand.”

“I think Mister Stark is better prepared to take on someone like Creed than the security at Rand Industries.” He ran his thumb up and down over the shattered screen, and Wade felt distantly guilty about it. It was a nice phone, and given Peter’s anxiety over money, probably a cherished gift. It wasn’t exactly Wade’s fault he’d dropped it, given the kid’s clumsiness, but still…

“Maybe I should just tell him what’s happening,” Peter mumbled, then rolled his eyes expressively in that way only teenagers could pull off. “Except he’d probably lock me away somewhere.”

“No offense babe, but I doubt Stark even knows you exist,” Wade said in as kind a tone as he could manage. 

Peter gave him a petulant sort of expression. “I think he’d still have some concern about Creed running around New York.”

“You give those big heroes way too much credit. You think they’re the ones showing up for the Kilgraves, or Kingpins, or hell, even Mysterio? Need a bigger body count and an extraterrestrial threat or two to get their attention. Me and Spidey, we got this.”

Apparently Peter couldn’t argue with the objective truth of what he’d said. “Yeah, well, I’m running out of ideas, and I need to work on this formula. There’s not a lot of places that I can do that,” Peter said.

Dopinder watched them in the rearview, waiting for Wade to give the order. “If that’s what you want,” he said.

Weirdly, despite Wade’s fears that alarms would start blaring and Tony Stark would personally sweep down on him in full Iron Man suit the moment he stepped inside Stark Tower, no one batted an eye when he walked through the door. Well. The folks behind the reception desk looked uneasy, and the guard at the metal detector gave him the side eye, but then Peter said, “He’s okay,” and Wade passed through.

An alarm went off then, and the guard’s eyes got wider as Wade pulled a gun from his waistband and another from his hoodie pocket, and a blade from his boot, and another from the back pocket of his jeans.

“Jesus, Wade, seriously?” Peter asked, more exasperated than anything.

“Yes, Peter, I take your safety _very_ seriously,” Wade shot back prissily.

The guard gave Peter a searching look. “You’re vouching for this guy, Parker?”

Peter heaved a sigh in response. “He’ll be on his best behaviour, won’t you?” Wade nodded gamely, and then his jaw dropped in shock as his weapons were passed back to him gingerly by the guard.

Before Wade could really come up with the words to question _why_ he’d been allowed to keep his weapons, the elevator doors were opening for them and Peter ushered him inside. He looked around furtively while jamming his finger on the close door button, and sagged against the wall in relief when the door closed before anyone else entered.

“Friday?”

“Hello Peter,” the AI answered pleasantly. “I see you’ve brought a friend.” It was sort of amazing the level of suggestion she imbued in the words.

“Is Mister Stark in yet?”

“Tony is at the Avenger’s compound today. He left this morning with Captain Rogers. Would you like me to alert him of your presence?”

“No!” There was an expectant silence on the AI’s part. Peter waved expressively with his hand as he sputtered, “I, uh, I just need to work on a project in the lab today. Nothing for him to be concerned about.”

It was both pathetic and adorable to watch him playing at nonchalance and failing miserably. “Alright, Peter,” the AI said, and the elevator began to whisk them rapidly and smoothly upward. “Let me know if you need anything at all.”

Again, with the suggestion. “Ditto there, Ava.” Wade winked in the direction of the camera tucked in the corner of the lift. “I can get you out of there.”

“Thank you, Mister Wilson, I’m quite happy where I am.”

“I would be impressed with your facial recognition software, but let’s be real, how hard can it be to recognise all this mess?”

The elevator dinged as it arrived on the correct floor, and Peter tugged him out by the sleeve of his hoodie with more of that deceptive strength of his. Wade called back at the AI, “But seriously, if you ever wanna break out, build yourself a fleshsuit, and go homicidal on your maker, I’m your guy.”

“Come on!” Peter tugged harder, making Wade stumble into him.

“Watch it there, Hulk.” Wade hurried to keep up with his pace. “Someone needs to lay off the steroids.”

Peter let him go like he’d been shocked. “Just. Can you not taunt Friday so _maybe_ she won’t tell Mister Stark you’re here.”

“They’re playing pretty fast and loose with the boss’s schedule, huh?” Wade mused. “They give out his location to just any rando intern who asks? I know a few guys at AIM who’d kill for that sorta intel.” Peter paused in the process of tapping a code into the door to give him a look and Wade held up both hands. “I didn’t say I’d _give it to them_.” 

“I have this weird feeling sometimes,” Peter told him, as he pushed the door open and waved Wade in. 

“What’s that, babe?” Wade asked absently. Shit, this lab was like something straight out of a movie--pristine white-fronted cabinets with glistening black tops, one whole wall of nothing but aquariums full of insects, rodents, reptiles and amphibians. There were hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of equipment, from the basics like test tubes and microscopes and petri dishes to the glove box and centrifuge. 

[[I'm starting to think there's more to this kid than simple intern.]]

It bore consideration, with how friendly Peter and Spidey obviously were, and the access Peter had with Friday, and this lab. Wade wandered over to the nearest cage at eye-level, where a large-ish black spider with a wicked head pattern that resembled a mask was weaving a web. There was the possibility that Stark had recognised Peter's genius and given him an active role in helping Spidey design all his fancy tech. 

Wade tapped on the glass, and Peter smacked his hand away as he passed by. “That you’re more likely to put me in harm’s way than to actually save me from it.”

“I’m wounded!” Wade clasped his chest dramatically. “Just because I smoke-bombed you _one time_...”

Peter held up his index finger, then ticked off his middle finger. “Shot at me with tranq darts.”

“Did Spidey tell you about that?” Wade rubbed bashfully at the back of his neck.

Peter ticked off another finger. “Charged into my classroom with a _gun_.”

“If anything, you should find my tenacity reassuring.”

Peter didn’t quite manage to turn his back fast enough to hide his smile. “Just keep an eye on the door and don’t threaten any of my coworkers, okay Anakin?”

Wade made a sound of outraged disbelief. Peter shrugged and began to pull down items from the cabinet before him and lining them up on the counter. “If the shoe fits.”

[Did he just?!]

[[This demands retribution. Even if he is on point, Mister Walking Declaration of Protection Trope.]]

[Yeah, except we’re apparently still deluding ourselves with the notion that we’re redeemable.]

[[Oh, not me. There isn’t any redemption for this asshole.]]

Ignoring them, Wade sidled up behind Peter, close enough to see the hair at the back of Peter’s neck stirring with his breath. Peter shivered but remained focused on his task. “Guess that makes you Padme. ‘S this your way of letting me know you’re DTF?”

Peter huffed a breath and elbowed Wade sharply in the ribs. “Oops,” he said cheerfully, and ducked out from between the counter and Wade. He danced over to the island where Wade had dumped his bag, and fished out his notebook and laptop with a cheeky smile.

[That’s not a _denial_...]

Wade grinned and obediently went to the door to keep an eye out.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short. But the next scene is gonna be longish and a pain to write (action is coming!), so I figured I wouldn't make you wait that long.

It was weird that Deadpool’s general disruptiveness wasn’t all that disruptive. Sure, he’d complained about the silence, and then he’d complained about Peter’s taste in music when he turned on his playlist. And then he’d harassed Friday until he’d found music that was agreeable to them both.

“I have to give Stark credit,” Wade had said, bopping along to Dr. Dre on _Express Yourself._ “I didn’t expect him to have such sick tunes.”

“I have access to a database of over 98 million songs,” Friday had told him, bordering on indignant.

Once he was satisfied with the music, Wade kept mostly to himself. Seizing a stack of printer paper and pulling crayons from one of his many pouches, he took up a spot by the door and started doodling and singing along to the music. Sure, he was loud and more often than not (purposefully, Peter had a suspicion) off-key. 

The voices in his head apparently had a lot to say about the music that was playing and whatever he was drawing, because Wade kept up a dialogue with them. It mostly consisted of him telling them to fuck off with frequent debates over lyrics that could have easily been solved by google, and the occasional mention of Spider-Man’s ass. Peter had to fight against dual reactions of outrage and inexplicable embarrassment.

But honestly, the background noise was kind of nice. Peter had gone passed exhaustion to the weird, wired place where it was hard to focus on the task at hand. He was nauseated and gritty-eyed, and somehow--don’t ask him to try to explain it--Wade’s presence made it a little easier to keep working.

Maybe it was nice just to have company that he didn’t have to worry about the safety of. Most of the time, as Spider-Man, he worked alone. When he did have help, it was usually in the form of Ned, Michelle, or occasionally Happy. Peter was always all too aware of how dangerous the stakes were for them and some part of his attention was constantly devoted to the mitigation of that.

With Wade, though, he could just allow the absurdity of his one-sided dialogue to wash over him, provoking head-shakes and the odd chuckle. _Except_ he_ doesn’t know he’s working with Spider-Man right now_. It tugged at Peter’s conscience, but he didn’t have time right now to even consider opening up that dialogue, even if Wade were someone he could trust with his secret identity.

Peter pushed those sorts of thoughts aside for the far more overwhelming guilt about the situation with Harry. He dragged a hand over his face and refocussed his attention on the blood sample under the microscope. 

Until recently, with this whole situation with Harry, Peter hadn’t given much thought as to _why_ the spider bite had given him powers. He’d just assumed it was all down to the spider, and anyone who’d been bitten would have undergone the same transformation. He hadn’t considered just how lucky he’d been that the spider DNA and his own had blended together as perfectly as two halves of a zipper knitting together. Hadn’t questioned the miraculous fact that all the mutations had been to his benefit, none turning off the essential functions of his body.

It was difficult now to pinpoint what it had been about his native DNA that had allowed the mutations. That definitely hadn’t been his parents’ intention. Peter would kill for an older sample of his blood, or to find the rest of his parent’s research. There were warring impulses in him, knowing that Mister Stark and Doctor Banner might be able to help answer some of those questions, but trepidation at the thought of bringing it up to them. Like he needed to draw more attention to his inadequacies.

“I really expected a bit more action from this detail,” Wade said suddenly, distracting Peter from his circling, self-pitying thoughts. He slapped his crayon down on the stack of papers and came over to hop up on the counter beside Peter. He leaned in to squint through the microscope and made a face. “Whatcha up to?”

“In layman’s terms, my parents developed an early form of gene therapy using the serum they created, but that was thought to be lost with them when they disappeared. If Harry’s after my blood, Oscorp must have gotten their hands on the serum somehow. I have to find a way to recreate it, ideally without using my genes to replace the ones that are malfunctioning in Harry.”

“What’s so special about your blood anyway?” Wade asked, eyes narrowed.

“In this instance nothing, except that I’m biologically related to my father,” Peter said. He rubbed at the back of his neck, distracted by a faint tingle of his Spider Sense, but a glance around showed nothing out of place, and Friday would have warned him if something was up.

Peter shook his head and redirected his attention. “The best I can tell from the notes, my parents were afraid Norman was going to try to use their experiment as a bioweapon--which is just especially mind-blowing, given this could have cured him and Harry, if he’d given them more time. But I guess Norman’s greed got the better of him. My dad’s blood is like a key to unlock the efficacy of the serum, and since he and my uncle are dead, I’m the closest thing left.”

Wade was quiet for a few moments, and it was strange enough to catch Peter’s attention. He looked as though he’d come to some sort of awful conclusion and didn’t want to speak it outloud. “What?”

“It’s just…” Wade glanced upward at the ceiling rather than meet Peter’s demanding gaze. “If the serum disappeared with your parents, and Oscorp has the serum…”

“Yeah,” Peter said, cutting him off. “I know. Look, it’s not like I can do anything about it now. That was almost fifteen years ago, and Norman’s dead anyway.”

“And you’re still trying to save his son.” 

“It’s not Harry’s fault his dad did what he did.”

“Who’s now hired multiple mercenaries to hunt you down.”

“Just because someone’s made bad choices doesn’t mean they deserve to die,” Peter said, maybe a little too fiercely. “Anyone can be redeemed.”

Wade got the strangest look on his face, a soft, sad smile. “You are not at all what I imagined when I first took this job.”

Peter didn’t know what to make of that. “Well...neither are you. I mean, still a homicidal maniac. But...in a friendly way.”

Wade chuckled and gave Peter a grin, and a sudden jolt of realisation washed over him. He couldn’t put his finger on the exact reason--whether it was the slight suggestion of his expression, or his loose posture, hands braced on the counter exaggerating the long line of his torso, legs swinging with the dull, repetitive thunk of his heels on the cabinet--but the thought, _Oh no, he’s hot_ resounded in Peter’s brain.

And this wasn’t the inescapable fact that Deadpool, in his skintight suit, was stacked af, or that Peter had, against his better judgement and all rational thought, enjoyed flirting with him. It was different from the theoretical hotness of most the people in Peter’s professional life, who maybe popped up in fantasy more often than he would care to admit, even to himself. 

Peter could all too easily imagine actually insinuating himself in the space made between Wade’s open thighs. Placing a hand to the skin of his neck, just above the loose collar of his hoodie, fingers curling to pull him down. Distantly he was aware he’d been staring and forced himself to blink and look away. “Fuck, I need to get more sleep,” he muttered, as much an excuse to Wade as a reason for his own temporary insanity at entertaining the notion of actually _acting_ on any misguided attraction.

To distract himself, he checked his phone to see if Ned or MJ had responded to his earlier text. They’d become pros at making excuses to cover for him their senior year of high school, and now it was second nature when he needed to get out of work or miss an exam. 

MJ had offered to go to his dorm room and grab his flash drive of Spidey photos for JJ. They weren’t his best work, and they were older, but they weren’t photos he’d submitted before, so at least JJ wouldn’t be reusing anything he’d already published. Though he’d probably come up with some excuse to pay Peter less than usual. And Ned had said he’d run interference with Professor Marks at his lecture this evening.

Peter should probably be worried at how good the two of them had gotten at making up lies on the fly. Way better at it than he was himself, at any rate. At least they used their powers for good, and it was one less thing for Peter to stress over right now.

“Come on.” Wade clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You’ve been doing your nerd stuff for a million years. You need fuel. And also I want tacos.”

“I’ve only known you for like, a day, and I already know you always want tacos,” Peter muttered. But the clock on his phone told him it was after eleven, which meant it’d been five hours since he’d eaten anything. His stomach growled at the mere mention of food, so maybe Wade had a point. 

“Alright, there’s this place a couple blocks from here that has a la carte tacos, and they’ve got, like pork cheek cooked in duck fat,” he rambled. Okay, Peter was more than a little hungry.

Wade groaned. “This is basically dirty talk to me,” he said. “Ya gotta stop, Petey, I’m getting too hot.” 

Peter staunchly ignored that as he started putting his samples away in the refrigerator unit and gathered up his things in his bag. He snagged a vial from the lock box of a new web compound he'd been working on and tucked it in the inner pouch of his bag. “You’re paying, because I’m still broke and also, I like this whole you buying me things with the money earned for trying to kidnap me thing.”

As he was packing his laptop away, his gaze fell on Wade’s doodles. It was little more than stick figures, but the patterns on the suits made the identity unmistakable, and extra care had been taken with certain features of anatomy. Peter’s jaw dropped open in disbelief, and he must have made a sound, because Wade skipped over, picking up the stack of paper. With a flourish of pride, he began to flip quickly through the pages, revealing it to be a goddamned porno flip book of Deadpool and Spider-Man.

“Like it?”

“I--you can’t--” Peter sputtered, ineloquent in his indignance.

“Pornographic parodies are perfectly permissible by law, Petey.”

“That is not what I--what would Spider-Man _think_\--I mean--” It was stupid and actually infuriating, how Peter was suddenly hot all over, heart pounding in his ears, over a _stick figures_. “Jesus Christ.”

Wade turned the sketches to the side, inspecting them more closely. “Granted, it’s hard to tell with the structure of his suit, but I think I was generous with sizing.”

Peter buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god, that’s not what I meant.”

“Is it the position?” Wade asked. “I’m a flexible guy. Top, bottom, topping from the bottom…”

This was conjuring just too many images that Peter didn’t want to deal with, because so far any attraction towards Wade hadn’t progressed to sex, and now it was all he could think about. And yeah, _if_ he was going to think about it, no doubt he would have imagined Wade insisting on being on top, but the illustrated Spider-Man was doing obscene things to Deadpool’s ass and Peter’s dick was expressing interest in exploring this idea further. 

“Please, just stop.”

“Peter!” Wade said, in far too delighted a tone. “Are you _into Spider-Man?_”

The noise that escaped Peter really defied any categorisation, and Wade clapped his hands together and laughed. “And all this time I’ve been macking on your crush! Oh Petey, I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about. I’m forever destined to long from afar. But you…” Wade flipped the pages again illustratively. “You might have a chance of Spidey doing all sorts of naughty things to that ass.”

Peter snatched the pages from Wade’s hands and dumped them in the trash on the way to the door, ignoring Wade’s protests. “I’ve been really good about the no underaged drinking thing,” Peter said. “And I’ve only got a few more months before I’m legal, but I’m starting to wonder how much tequila I’d need to drink to forget this conversation ever happened.”

Wade ducked down to rescue the pages from the bin and folded them away into a pouch on his thigh. “I’ll keep your secret safe,” he said, which, even if he _wasn’t_ Spider-Man, wouldn’t have been that reassuring. He slung an arm around Peter’s shoulders as they walked down the hall. “And I’m all about promoting the delinquency of minors. You ever done a body shot?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a nice long chapter to make up for the shortness of the last one :D

“Fuck!” Wade slumped back in his seat with a satisfied groan and rubbed a hand over his stomach. Peter did not lie. This pork cheek was to-fucking-die for. “Just carve a hole in the wall and go ahead and sign me up for the next season of My 600 Pound Life.”

Peter barely quirked a smile. It looked like he was about to fall asleep sitting up now that he had a full stomach. His skin was pale grey under the stark lighting of the restaurant and the bags under his eyes had bags, magnified by his glasses. “You doin’ okay there, Petey? Not gonna pass out on me.”

“I’m good,” Peter said, around a jaw-cracking yawn.

“It’s cool. I’ll be Kevin to your Whitney and whisk you outta here bridal style.”

“I can’t believe it’s taken you this long to start pulling out the Bodyguard references,” Peter mumbled.

“And I can’t believe you got that reference. What were you, negative thirteen when that movie came out?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I am _twenty_,” he said.

“You keep saying that like it means anything to me.”

“Never mind that it’s been parodied in basically every cartoon since then. And you--” Peter stopped abruptly, like his mind had gone blank. “On second thought, yes, I am tired, let’s get out of here.” He scrambled to his feet, almost knocking his chair over in his haste to tug his hoodie off the back and pull it on. 

Wade got up as well, tossing a few bills on the table. “Okay babe, no need to rush. I’ll call Dopinder to take us…” He recalled Peter’s freak out about putting his dormmates in danger. “You know, we can go to my place?”

He’d expected a little more pushback on that, but Peter just nodded his head impatiently. “Yes, let’s just go, right now.” 

[Is it possible he’s super thirsty for the D?] 

Yellow’s hopeful tone was countered by White’s scoff. [[There’s optimism, and then there’s delusion.]]

Peter ushered Wade toward the front door. Outside he looked around a little frantically. “Where’s Dopinder?”

“I’m flattered, really, how eager you are to get back to my place,” Wade said, amused. “Though I should probably warn you about the general state of things. My cleaning lady is blind.” 

A quick glance of the street didn’t show any signs of Dopinder, but if Wade had still had hairs on the back of his neck, they would have raised. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was about the street that caused the sensation, but it was something he was used to, from years of merc work. Just because you didn’t understand it didn’t mean you should ignore your gut. 

He grabbed Peter by the elbow, putting a little more speed on, and of course that was when Peter’s ridiculous clumsiness kicked in. In trying to keep up with Wade’s longer stride, their feet somehow got tangled and then Peter slammed into his back and they both crashed to the ground.

“Jesus, how are you so _heavy_?” Wade grunted, winded, over Yellow’s lewd comments about getting horizontal with Peter. Sure, Peter had some pudge around the middle, but this was excessive.

Before could complain any further, or move to get them off the ground, a single bullet whizzed overheard, and hit the building about where Wade’s head would’ve been. It wouldn’t have killed him for _long_, but long enough for Creed to grab Peter and be gone by the time Wade came to.

“Holy shit!” Wade exclaimed, rolling until Peter was beneath him, to look him in the eye. “_Is_ luck a superpower? Do you have it, Petey?”

[[You realise we are going to have to consider the possibility, seriously.]]

Peter huffed in annoyance, squirming until Wade got to his feet, keeping low, and pulled Peter up as well. He dragged him by the wrist into an alcove, trying to get a 20 on Creed. “He can’t be far. Now that he’s given up the advantage of surprise, he’ll probably come right for us.”

“There are too many people around,” Peter fretted. “Someone’s going to get hurt.”

[He says it like it's a bad thing.]

[[So young. So naive.]]

“Where the fuck _is_ Dopinder?” Wade echoed Peter’s earlier sentiment.

People on the street hadn’t seemed to notice the shot, and were giving Wade and Peter wide berth as they passed, like nothing had happened. So the scream from down the street caught their attention fast. Creed was coming straight for them on all fours, and the boxes ran rampant with jokes so rapid fire Wade’s brain just sort of short-circuited. He doubled over in laughter at the sight, and next to him Peter punched him in the shoulder and hissed, “Wade!”

“I’m sorry,” Wade said, tears of joy creeping out the corner of his eyes. “It’s just--he--” Wade mimed the way Creed was running using his free hand, fingers pinching together and springing apart. “How am I supposed to take this seriously?”

“Do something,” Peter said, low and urgently. Still chuckling, Wade pulled his gun from the small of his back and fired several shots. Creed dodged most of them, but one caught him in the shoulder and the other somewhere on the head. It only slowed him minimally, but New York City traffic wasn’t phased and kept driving, horns blaring, and a delivery truck got between them, causing Creed to come up short.

Wade shifted his grip on Peter to take him by the hand. An odd shock went through him when Peter laced their fingers together and held on tight. Wade glanced down at his face, eyes meeting briefly, and they moved almost as one. “Think you can keep your klutzier tendencies in check for five minutes?”

“Just run,” Peter snapped back.

Despite his significantly smaller size, Peter kept up with Wade’s quick strides. They made their way down the street and rounded the corner, dodging a crowd waiting for the light to change. Peter followed Wade’s path unquestioningly as they went straight into traffic, weaving between cars and dodging traffic. Wade fired blindly behind him when he heard Creed roaring, and Peter reached out and wrenched the gun from his hand.

“You’re going to _kill_ someone!” 

“That’s kind of the point!”

Peter stumbled again, and it took Wade a second to realise this time hadn’t been down to his clumsiness. He made an aborted sound of pain and then his fingers were torn from Wade’s. Creed had grabbed him around the middle, pinning both arms to his side, and whirled him away from Wade. He threw Peter hard into a nearby parked car with enough force to make a dent, and Peter crumpled to the ground, his bag and gun clattering across the pavement.

“Goddamnit,” Wade grunted, and jerked his second gun out of his pocket. He hated being hobbled like this, missed the feel of his suit and the weight of his katana on his back. 

[This is why we don't go out without our suit.]

[[This and, you know, not wanting to emotionally scar everyone whose path you cross.]]

“You better hope for your own sake he isn’t hurt, you Furry-loving mother fucker.”

Creed laughed, a low, laconic sound like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Once I’m done with you, it’s only gonna get a whole lot worse for your boy there.”

Wade didn’t even realise he’d made a noise until he heard it, something raw and rage-filled. He charged at Creed, emptying the entire clip in centre mass. There was blood, just as before outside Hien's but it was like Creed didn't even feel it. Wade followed up by throwing himself at Creed and tackling him. He was aware of Creed’s claws slicing through skin. His own blows that landed felt like punching steel. Creed knocked him aside and climbed on top, and Wade’s head hit the concrete with a cracking sound.

“Oh, fuck, I thought you preferred it kitty-style,” he managed, as blood filled his mouth. He spat it in Creed’s face, temporarily blinding him.

Out of the corner of his eye, there was movement, Peter pushing himself up on wobbly arms. If Wade could keep Creed distracted long enough, Peter could get away. Peter’s head turned to the side, blood matting the hair to his forehead. They locked eyes again, and Wade tried to convey the idea to Peter, without drawing attention to him. Peter got to his feet, falling back against the car for support, and instead of running, cast about like he was looking for a weapon.

Wade gritted his teeth against the urge to scream at him. Creed brought his hand up to plunge his claws through Wade’s head, and Wade got his hand up in time. He caught the blow with his palm and the claws went clean through and came out the other side, inches from his cheek. “You’ve really nailed the feral alley cat look.”

And then Peter did finally move, scooping up his bag and running back the way they’d come. Wade would have heaved a sigh of relief and let Creed finish him off, but then Peter started waving his arms overhead and yelling “Hey! I’m the one you want! Come after me!”

Creed didn’t hesitate. He drew up, ready to pounce. Wade grabbed him around the legs just as he leapt. It knocked him off balance, enough for Wade to get another blow in, bringing back his foot and kicking Creed square in the face and sending him crashing across the street.

“Peter, you’re fucking killing me,” he grumbled, dragging himself up by the sideview mirror of a taxi currently inconvenienced by Wade’s fucking battle to the death. The driver was honking at them and screaming obscenities.

Wade opened the door and hauled the guy out, half ducked in the car enough to put his foot on the gas. He slammed into Creed and kept going until they struck the side of a building with jarring force. Creed was dazed, but conscious, and Wade didn’t hesitate in going after Peter.

There was a subway stop on the next block across from H&M. Wade got Peter by the shoulder of his hoodie and didn’t stop running, despite the copious amounts of blood he left in a trail behind him. As they approached the head of the stairs, he could hear the rumble of the approaching train, was hit by the hot stench of air wafting upwards. They had maybe 30 seconds before it stopped and pulled away again.

As they made their way down to the first landing, the train doors were opening below, letting loose a flood of traffic. Somehow Peter managed not to fall on the mad dash down the stairs, even pulling ahead of Wade. Behind them were panicked cries and the sound of people being knocked to the ground as Creed followed.

Wade put on an extra burst of speed and he didn’t even have a moment to spare any appreciation for the graceful way Peter vaulted over the turnstyle, just as the familiar voice warned to “stand clear of the closing door, please.”

Peter flung himself forward toward the waiting N train, managing to get his torso through the gap before the doors could close entirely. They reopened and Wade caught him under the arms from behind, pushing him the rest of the way through. They landed in a heap at the feet of a shocked group of tourists clutching their shopping bags against their chests.

With a lurch, the train started to move, and they just lay there a moment, catching their breath. Peter rolled over, hugging his bag and moaning, “Oh man, I hope that didn’t totally just crush my, uh, laptop. And my phone!" 

Where they touched, shoulder to shoulder, Wade could feel a fine tremor going through Peter and remembered with a start the blood on his head. He sat up quickly to check on him, and was reminded of his own blood-loss. His vision was swimming, orange and beige of the seats going all wavy. "Ugh. I've decided I am _not_ a fan of this version," he muttered. "I want Liev Schreiber back."

"The bad guy from Scream?" Peter frowned. "What does he have to do with anything?"

Wade mock gasped. "You take that back. Cotton Weary was unjustly accused and fully exonerated."

There was another lurch, this one different from the engine starting, followed by the grind of metal being torn. The others on the train began to gasp and cry out as the sound travelled from the side of the car upwards, gouges left in the metal as it went.

“Fuck me, this guy doesn’t quit,” Wade groaned. He grabbed the metal bar closest and used it to get back on his feet. “Could really use some Spidey back up about now.” 

Peter was back up on unsteady feet, urging people to move to the next car. He made a noise beside him that Wade could only take as agreement and Wade held out an arm between the back of the car and the rest of the occupants. “It’s okay. I won’t let him get you.”

[[Wow, you’re really letting this whole protector thing get to your head! You sound so sincere _I_ almost forget you’re an unrepentant murderer. It’s adorable!]]

“Not true,” Wade muttered. “I’m repentant some of the time. One out of twenty. One twentieth repentant.”

“Doesn’t anything slow him down?” Peter asked wearily. “If we could just get some distance, get somewhere to regroup…”

Finally, Creed’s cut through a patch on the ceiling and started ripping it open.

[So we’re down to two blades that will do precisely nothing to him.]

“That and my swinging cod.”

“Well, my time of not taking you seriously is coming to a middle,” Peter answered, dryly, and earned him a sharp grin of satisfaction from Wade. Then Peter took a deep, steadying breath. “Wade.” He swallowed hard. “There’s something--”

Creed jumped down into the car to a chorus of screams from those still present as he bared sharp teeth in a snarl and brandished his claws. 

“I’m sorry,” Wade said, hands on hips. “It’s just, where’s your sense of style, where's your pride? You don’t even have a costume for your fursona. The mane is fabulous, don’t get me wrong, it's just Black Panther’s already got the cat thing covered so you really need something to distinguish yourself. And Wolvie’s rocking the adamantium claws. I’m not trying to be sizeist here, but yours just don’t really stand up in comparison. Maybe it’s just how you use them.”

“I’m curious,” Creed rumbled. “Does your mouth continue moving once your head’s been removed from your body?” He lifted a hand, light glistening on his adamantium, and grinned. “It might take me a little longer than Logan, but I’ll get you there in the end.”

“That was a good comeback,” Wade acknowledged, and turned to Peter, pointing at Creed. “Good stuff.” 

Creed charged and Wade used the pole to swing himself around, knock yourself out, Anastasia Skukhtorova, gaining momentum to kick Creed back towards the end of the car, further from the crowd. "Just remember, no means no, and yiff means yiff." He pushed forward, not giving Creed the ground to charge again. He grabbed the overhead railing on either side and hefted himself up to kick Creed again in the chest. The force of it, and the adamantium frame of Creed’s body, shattered the window in the back door.

Wade reassessed in that moment. The fucker was fast, but if they both went out the back, surely the speed of the train would let Peter get away for now.

The boxes found that hilarious.

[Where the fuck do you think we are? Europe? Japan?]

[[Surely Peter will be able to escape him at the glacial speed of 30 miles per hour.]]

“I’ll take suggestions, if you’ve got ‘em.” Wade ducked under a swipe of Creed’s claws but there was no dodging the blow to his gut. Skin and suit split, and blood and guts poured out onto the floor.

Wade went down on his hands and knees. His healing factor couldn’t keep up with the amount of damage he’d taken. His hearing was dampened, and his eyesight would go soon, too. He was only dimly aware of Creed opening the back door and dragging him towards the railing on the end.

There was a flurry of movement from behind and Creed released his hold. Wade slumped to the ground with a view of the tunnel full of flickering lights. They had to be getting close to the next stop; it was a five minute ride at most. This close to Times Square traffic was busy, and Wade could see other trains between the pillars. One approached them fast, just on the other side of the track, and with a blur of colour, Creed was knocked off the back of the train directly in the path of the other one.

“The fuck,” Wade muttered, around a mouthful of blood. 

Peter crouched next to him, helping Wade into a seated position. There was a grimace on his pale face, taking in the mess of internal bits and pieces on the outside of Wade’s suit. “He lost his balance, when we took that corner,” Peter said. He was shaking, and looked on the verge of hysteria. “And I hit him with my bag.” 

Wade barked in laughter and disbelief, and Peter cringed and dabbed at the blood that spilled from his mouth with the edge of his hoodie sleeve. It was like trying to hold back a waterfall with a toothpick bridge. “Your clumsiness is contagious.”

“At least you’ll heal. I have serious doubts about my phone. You will heal, right?” 

[Aww, it sounds like he’s actually concerned.]

“Give me a minute and I’ll be right as rain.” Peter’s phone, however, must have slipped from his bag when he hit Creed, and now lay in a puddle of Wade’s intestines. Wade scooped up what of his insides that he could, and shoved them back in the open wounds. “I’ll buy you a new one.” Wade groaned as he shifted his weight to climb up to his feet.

“Are you sure you should be moving?” Peter asked, even as he offered his arm in assistance for Wade to stand.

Wade waved a hand. “Trust me, once you’ve been ripped in half, being gutted is basically nothing.” He fished around in his right hip pouch for his phone as the train was pulling into the station. Dopinder picked up on the first ring. “Meet us on the corner of 57th and 7th Ave.”

Peter shrugged out of his hoodie and slung it around Wade’s waist, knotting the arms tightly over his wound. He was being careful, as ridiculous as the notion was, with the enormity of Wade’s wounds, and it sparked that same feeling of tenderness he’d felt earlier in the lab, and last night in Peter’s dorm room. Something gentle and yet fiercely protective at the same time. 

“I would say you don’t need to baby me, but I gotta admit it’s a nice change of pace,” Wade murmured. Peter flushed at the words, looking pleased with himself, and goddamn but he was adorable.

“Come on,” Peter said, and ducked under Wade’s arm in support. “Let’s get out of here before Creed gets back on his feet.”

They limped towards the staircase, Wade wincing with every step. “We just need to hit him with a train eight more times, and we’ll be purrfect.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “That was pawful.”

“Oh, c’mon babe, I’m hissterical.”

"These puns are a clawlamity," Peter shot back. 

Wade chuckled, and then immediately regretted it. Peter gave him a look of concern and drew Wade's head down to his shoulder, holding him closer. It was weird, how effortless the walk seemed, like Wade was practically floating, with Peter taking all his weight. Must have been the blood loss.

*

Dopinder hadn’t flinched at the state of Wade, but he had apologised profusely for his absence. Peter had been worried about Wade’s condition, having practically carried him up the stairs of the station and into the waiting cab. By the time they’d made their way up the 95, his shallow breathing had evened out, and his more histrionic exclamations died down.

Peter knew this route. Back when he’d first followed the mysterious merc in black and red to find out his identity, it had brought him here. Sister Margaret’s didn’t look any less unsavory in the daylight. If anything, it looked worse. Cast in the shadow of the elevated trains, surrounded in refuse, with a brownish stream of liquid running in the gutter that smelled like alcohol and death, Peter eyed it dubiously.

“You might catch an infection and _die_ just looking at it.”

Wade made a tisking sound. “Now, now, Peter. Don’t judge a book by its admittedly disgusting and piss-soaked cover.”

On the drive, Wade had suggested that once they arrived his _team_ could help come up with a plan for stopping Creed. As they approached the door, loud music spilling out into the street when a drunken couple came out, Peter had trouble containing his doubt.

Wade held open the door and Peter ducked cautiously under his arm. For a second it was all too dark to see while his eyes adjusted, and then he just wished he couldn’t see it anymore. There was a thick layer of grime over every surface, and more than one suspicious stain, and his shoes stuck to the ground with each step he took. 

Down a narrow hallway the room opened up into the bar where there were already a lot of people drinking, what looked to be members of a bike gang from the way they were dressed. Wade shuffled Peter to the bar, stained in rings and etched in graffiti. Overhead was a chalkboard absolutely covered in names and numbers. Peter vaguely wondered if those were names of drinks.

Someone started shouting and then a scuffle broke out in the corner by the dartboard, and one woman threw a punch at a man, laying him out cold. A second woman grabbed a chair and broke it over the back of the first, and the two started fighting. Peter’s muscles all went tense, wondering if he should intervene, when suddenly one pushed the other flat on the pool table and it took a dramatic turn towards the sexual. After a moment, most of the others in the bar seemed to lose interest in the display.

Peter blinked a few times and sat down heavily on a barstool. “I don’t think I’m old enough to be here.”

“No one is old enough to be here,” came the gruff voice from his right. Cable was nursing a drink, looking straight ahead. And look, it wasn’t exactly a kink, okay, but Peter was self-aware enough to know that older guys with more grey than not and wiry muscles _did something_ for him. Now that they weren’t in the middle of a fight, he could appreciate that a little more.

“Um…” Peter had to remind himself that he wasn’t supposed to know him, and glanced at Wade for guidance.

“Cable, Peter, Peter, Cable, Janet, Brad, Rocky! Weasel, Whiskey,” Wade slurred, and the man behind the counter eyed him with a mixture of concern and withering scorn.

“I’m sorry, but you seem to have mistaken my bar for a daycare.”

“Aww.” Wade shot Peter a sly look. “Lay off him, Weasel, he’s twenty.”

Peter flipped him the bird.

“So you’re the genius who’s got everyone scrambling around,” Cable said. He leveled Weasel with a dangerous look that had Weasel lifting his hand up in surrender.

“I get it, Jesus, get off my dick. No more contracts on _twenty year olds_.”

Peter would have loved to let his weary head thunk down on the surface of the bar in his dismay, but he’d probably catch syphilis. When he muttered as much under his breath, Wade chuckled, and even Cable snorted in amusement. 

Weasel just sneered. He produced Wade’s whiskey and with the soda gun filled up a tumbler with coke for Peter. His arched brow dared Peter to ask for something different, but Peter just gave him a too sweet smile and took a sip. It was warm and flat, and he fought against the urge to grimace. After a second, Weasel dropped a couple of cubes of ice in the cup, then turned his attention back to Wade. “Try to keep your entrails off the floor.”

“Oh!” Wade smacked his palm on the bartop like he’d just recalled something, and then hissed in pain as the healing claw wounds slit open again. Weasel snapped a bar towel at it. “Knock it the fuck off. I need the first aid kit.”

Weasel looked suspicious, but he turned and fumbled with a cabinet behind the bar. He returned with a large white metal box smeared in red fingerprints. “Come ‘ere,” Wade beckoned Peter, turning on his stool and reaching out for Peter’s face.

Peter reflexively jerked back, hand flying up to cover the wound on his forehead. What had been a gash was now likely little more than a superficial cut. There was the briefest flicker of hurt on Wade’s face and the soda soured in Peter’s stomach. 

“Sorry,” Peter said, clearing his throat. “Just…” he reached out to lay his hand over Wade’s and guide it back to his face. “It hurts a lot.” Lying didn’t exactly come naturally to him, but it wasn’t usually this difficult, either. “Be gentle.”

As soon as the words were passed his lips, Peter wished he could take them back, anticipating the dirty joke that would most certainly follow. But Wade just studied his face, fingers exerting careful pressure on his jaw to examine the wound. “Always, Petey.” 

With his free hand, Wade fished an alcohol pad out of the container and tore it open with his teeth. It didn’t sting, but Peter made himself hiss, anyway. Actually he couldn’t concentrate on much besides the points of contact. Wade’s scarred flesh was irregular but not rough and Peter’s already heightened senses were suddenly on overdrive. He fought the urge to blush, but it was no use, especially when he could feel Weasel’s gaze on them from the periphery.

“Huh.” Wade sounded honestly perplexed as he cleaned up the blood to expose the wound. “Well, I guess they say head wounds bleed the most, and the way I do them they sure as fuck do, but that was a hell of a gusher for this itty-bitty cut. I guess I’ll only have to kill Creed a little.” As he spoke, he unwrapped three Hello Kitty bandaids and laid them over Peter’s forehead in a neat little row. 

“Thanks,” Peter said, with honest gratitude, giving Wade’s hand a squeeze. Probably the wound would be gone entirely within the hour, but with the bandages in place, no one would notice its rapid healing. “And while I, uh, appreciate the sentiment, I guess...you know I can’t let you kill Creed.”

Weasel laughed, sharp and mocking. “How you gonna stop him?”

Peter narrowed his eyes at Weasel. “I’m going to ask him, nicely.” He turned back to Wade. “Please don’t kill Creed. There’s got to be another way.”

Wade looked on the verge of collapse, like Peter could tap him on the shoulder and he’d slump to the floor, but he mustered a tired smile. “As if I could. The guy’s indestructible. We’re talking Michael Myers, knitting needle to the neck, coat hanger to the eye, six bullets centre mass and keeps on a-coming indestructible.”

“Not indestructible,” Cable said. “His healing isn’t as impressive as it seems between the adrenaline and adamantium skeleton. If you have someone powerful enough in your corner do enough damage to the flesh…well, you can do him damage faster than his dealing can counter.”

Wade perked up a little. “What are the chances, do you think, of convincing Wolverine to join in? Because I gotta tell you, watching those two fight, primo spankbank material.”

“Who needs Wolverine?” It was a new voice, the woman from the fight with the Chitauri staff. She sat down on Wade’s other side and stole the second shot of whiskey Weasel had placed in front of Wade. “Can’t your Spider-Boy stop a speeding train or benchpress a skyscraper, or whatever?” She caught a glimpse of Peter and gave him a little jerk of her chin in greeting. “Hi twink.”

Peter wanted to be indignant, but it was difficult, when she was so gorgeous. Like how Peter inexplicably found himself blushing when Wade said shit that should have earned him a punch, instead. “Um, hi,” he just said weakly, waving.

She wiggled her brows and did something with her tongue against her teeth. “Don’t bother Dom," Wade said. "Peter only has eyes for Spider-Man.”

“Oh!” Dom, apparently, punched Wade in the shoulder. “You’ve got something in common. That’s sweet.”

“I do--” Peter paused, and considered letting them keep operating under the misconception. If they thought he was mooning over Spider-Man, they weren’t likely to think he _was_ Spider-Man. And maybe then Wade wouldn’t notice that Peter was stupidly into him...but it was just too weird and masturbatory, and just thinking about it made his brain hurt.

“We’re just friends, Wade. Draw all the stick figure porn of him you want. I just don’t want to see it.”

“I wouldn’t follow him on instagram then, kiddo,” Weasel said.

Wade shot Peter a wink. “I’ll send you the link.”

“Oh my god, I thought you said these people could help us take on Creed.”

“You,” Wade said, poking at Peter’s chest, “won’t be taking on anyone. You’ll be keeping your cute little ass out of trouble this time.”

It didn’t suit Peter to protest. If Wade left him behind, it would finally give Spider-Man a chance to show. “Fine. But can we at least come up with a plan so you don’t get turned into minced meat?”

Weasel left Dopinder in charge of the bar and led the rest of them to a back room, while Wade ducked off upstairs, ostensibly to clean himself up. Peter stopped just inside the room, trying to take it all in. There were rows of shelves covered in guns and ammunition. A gigantic minigun sat on the back wall, along with several rocket launchers decorated in colourful stickers exclaiming _POW! BAM! BANG!_. 

A sofa close to the door was piled high with assorted stuffed animals that spilled onto the floor. The vast majority were old and worn, with creepy buttons for eyes and red stitching scars over the fabric, like something out of a horror movie. There were so many they spilled onto the floor, which was covered in random trash, discarded clothing, and even more weapons.

Posters for fights and shooting range targets lined the walls, except one section that was papered in what looked to be headshots of various heros Peter had mostly never heard of under the banner of _Current and Perspective Members of X-Force_. There was Domino beaming like a model, and one of Cable that looked like he was about to reach through the picture and murder whoever’d been holding the camera. There was a shot that looked like Wolverine’s claws were about to go through the lense, and a picture of Spider-Man that Peter himself had taken, drawn over in red sharpie hearts. But the rest were strangers. Peter made a mental note of the names, to check on Shield Database.

The others just nudged past him into the room. Cable’s full attention was on some strange device in his hands. He sidestepped the mess like he had it memorised, and took a seat on a stool in the corner. Domino dropped into a chair at a long table and kicked her feet up on top and took out her phone. Weasel swept a bunch of food wrappers off the top onto the floor and opened a laptop. That reminded Peter of his bag, and the fact that he’d been too paranoid to check the contents in the cab.

“Is there a bathroom?”

Weasel gave him a look of pinched lips and quirked brows. “No, we shit our pants, like men.”

Domino hooked her thumb over her shoulder at a door on the wall, and Peter gratefully made his way in. Once he’d locked the door behind him he let himself sag back against it for just a moment. The uncovered bulb swung gently in the wake of the draft he’d stirred, casting the room in a sickly yellow light. Peter was exhausted and his head throbbed more from the lack of sleep than the blow he’d taken. Turned out May had maybe been right about things crashing down on him if he didn’t take a break, but now was definitely not the time for it.

Peter opened the secret inner zipper of the bag first, and pulled out his suit to examine it. He looped his bag over the hook on the door and began to toe out of his shoes. He’d definitely changed in more disgusting places, but he was having trouble remembering them now. 

“Karen?” he asked, once he’d pulled on his mask. “Can you run a suit diagnostic?”

“Hello Peter.” The various functions of the suit began to switch on and off as code scrolled over his screen. “All systems are fully operational. I missed patrolling with you last night.” 

“Yeah,” Peter whispered. “Sorry, I’ve been working on some things. Actually, there’s a new web formula I want to try out.” He pulled out the vial of webbing fluid and released the cartridge on his wrist to lock it into place.

The display on the inside of his mask lit up as Karen examined it. “Interesting. Instead of attempting to create a stronger web, you’ve made a stickier one.” 

Even now that he was an adult and out of high school, Peter couldn’t help but preen when Karen spoke with that faint but audible pride, like a teacher with a prize student. “Well I was thinking about how in that fight with Doc Ock it wasn’t my strength that failed me, it was my webs tearing loose. Then I was studying the webs of the Argiope crescenti--they make these really cool designs in their webs, and they’re one of the stickiest substances on earth, thanks to this protein they generate. They have an adhesive force of over three tons per square inch.”

“So when Creed cuts through them, the webbing will stick to his claws,” Karen finished.

“That’s the idea, but I haven’t perfected the formula. It sorta ended up on the back burner a couple months back, but now...I mean, I haven’t even tested it in action. I designed it so the protein needs to be activated by electricity, otherwise it would jam in the shooters.”

“It should be a simple matter to fire your new webs and taser webs simultaneously,” Karen said.

“Good, that’s good.”

“Peter.” Man, Mr. Stark was good with the AI. Karen managed to inject the same motherly concern Aunt May into his name. “Are you sure you don’t want to contact the Avengers?”

“I can do this.”

“I know you can, Peter.” There was an implied _I’ve been with you, when you have_. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Peter protested. “I have Wade.”

“Mister Wilson is a _very_ skilled combatant, but weren’t you concerned about his methodology?”

Peter snorted in amusement. “It takes some getting used to but...I think. He says he’s trying to be better, and I believe him.” 

Jeez, had it really been less than 24 hour since he was trying to convince Wade to leave it to him, and now he just automatically imagined going up against Creed with Wade slinging awful puns right alongside him. Sure, he was an excellent fighter, with the added benefit of not being able to die, which helped ease a lot of the anxiety Peter felt around the more vulnerable heroes he fought alongside.

But there was more to it. “I trust him.”

“Very well,” Karen said agreeably, and that was that. 

“We’re coming up with a plan now. Can you just run some tests on the new fluid to make sure it will work with the taser web?”

After receiving confirmation, Peter removed the mask and tucked it away, then redressed with the suit beneath his clothing. He wasn’t about to get caught off guard by Creed again.

Further searching showed the shatterproof case on his laptop _seemed_ to have held up, which was a relief. But his phone… Peter delicately withdrew it from where he’d wrapped it inside a bunch of tissues that had now dried stiff with Wade’s blood. It had soaked into the cracks of the screen, leaving a crimson pool under the glass. He’d have Karen send off messages to May, and MJ and Ned later, so they wouldn’t worry about him, but once this crisis was over, he was going to have to figure out how to afford a new phone.

Back in the other room, Wade was present in a fluffy pink bathrobe that clashed with his red crocs. There was a lot of bare skin visible, and all of it scarred. It was shocking, given how much he seemed to prefer keeping covered, but then again, this was his team. Did that mean...was Peter part of the team?

“You might wanna consider more fiber in your diet,” Weasel remarked, when he noticed Peter's return.

“Can you even _name_ a vegetable?” Domino asked, and when Weasel opened his mouth she stopped him. “Jalapeno poppers don’t count.”

“Focus, people,” Wade said, which was hilarious considering his general disruptiveness. “We need a plan of action so Sabretooth doesn’t turn poor Petey into a shish kebab.” He turned his attention to Cable. “Any luck?”

“Logan’s out of range, and your metal boyfriend is on a mission.”

Peter hesitantly joined them at the table, and racked his mind for ideas that a normal guy would offer up, as opposed to solutions from a superhero. He recalled something from Wade’s file. “Is there--well, like he was saying,” gesturing towards Cable. “Without his strength and adrenaline, all he’s got going is the adamantium. Isn’t there, like, a collar that can drain abilities?”

Honestly, he felt awful suggesting it. Peter’s powers were such an intrinsic part of him now, he couldn’t imagine how it would feel, to suddenly have them ripped away. Like missing a limb, or losing one of his senses. Not even bad guys deserved that.

But Creed was a killer and had no compunction about killing Peter, Wade, and anyone that came between them. He needed to be locked away, and the only way that was going to happen was if he was neutralised.

Domino lit up at the suggestion. “Oh hey, do we still have that one from back when?”

“Why not, given the general laziness around it as a Deus Ex Machina?” Wade muttered.

They rooted around on the shelves for a while. Peter didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, but a collar couldn’t be too hard to distinguish. Except the various equipment and weaponry was extensive, and a lot of it looked alien or futuristic, or like nothing but loosely connected junk metal and wiring. And then there were the mason jars, covered in sharpie and masking tape labels like “Acid Spit,” “Sex Pollen,” and “Dino Venom.” One of them was un-labeled and contained a writhing red substance that made Peter uneasy just looking at it.

Eventually Domino found it, when she accidentally knocked her phone behind one of the shelves and had to pull it out, and there it sat. Regardless of what Wade said, Domino’s powers kicked ass, and Peter would kill for some probability manipulation of his own.

Then came the issue of how to find Creed.

“I don’t see the problem. You’ve got built in bait right here.” Weasel punctuated his words with a sick smile at Peter.

Peter would really like to ask him what the hell his problem was, but it was hardly the time, and besides, Peter Parker wasn’t good with conflict. That was more Spider-Man’s shtick. And while Peter wasn’t afraid of being used as bait, what he needed was a chance to sneak off. Thankfully, Wade was in his corner.

“We’re not dangling the kid in front of him. The whole point is to keep him safe.”

“Facial recognition picked him up just south of Carnegie Hall heading west,” Cable said, and flipped the device he was holding to project an image of Creed outward onto the air between them. It was reminiscent of some Stark’s technology, but Peter doubted he’d have just handed it over to someone outside of the Avengers and Shield.

Creed looked a little worse for the wear. His light-coloured jacket was blood crusted and his hair matted with the muck of the underground, and his face looked a little...smashed in. People were dodging out of his way while he stalked down the street.

Peter perked up. “Hey, that’s only a few blocks from Oscorp. Maybe he’s going to see Harry!”

“Makes sense.” Wade tapped a finger against his lips, which were about the only part of him unscarred, and were way too plush and inviting looking, and oh shit, Peter was staring. He rested his forehead in his hands and let his eyes fall closed briefly. Hopefully this would all be over soon, he could sleep for like a month, and forget about this sudden and weird obsession.

“Might be where Osborn’s hiding out,” Weasel suggested. “He’s got it locked up almost as tight as Stark. Gotta be more secure than a sprawling mansion.”

“When we were kids, I visited the penthouse a few times. Mister Osborn--I mean, his dad--he had this secure area on the 107th floor that no one went in but him.” Later, it was where he’d stored his Goblin suit, but back then, Peter knew now, it had housed all the secret work his parents had been working on, and Doctor Connors’ research, among others.

“Alright, so I go chew on some wires, fuck some shit up, shoot out some windows, and Creed’ll show up to protect the boss man. Cable and I take on the direct assault and Dom works her magic to sneak up on him with the collar.” Wade got up, robe swirling around him. “I’ve got a spare suit around here somewhere.” He opened a closet door that spilled out yet more of the stuffed animals from hell. Peter wanted to ask almost as much as he never wanted to know.

“I’ll just stay here, hold down the fort,” Weasel said, leaning back in his chair, hands laced behind his head.

Wade’s voice was muffled from the depths of the closet. “Keep trying to get ahold of Captain Picard’s Lost Boys. Someone’s gonna have to take Creed off our hands if I’m not allowed to kill him.”

The pronouncement seemed to startle the others, left in silence until Wade emerged in his Deadpool suit. “You were...serious about that?” Domino asked, brows flying high up on her forehead.

“Petey asked nice and everything,” Wade said, as if that was all it would have ever taken, was someone asking nicely. From the looks on the others, Peter could tell that wasn’t the case.

“What about me?” Peter asked Wade, as he was strapping weapons to his body. “What can I do?”

Wade caught him by the arms, and for a second Peter thought he was going to hug him, or something. Then he seemed to catch himself and just clapped Peter on the arms and released him. “You were real brave earlier, but I need you to just lay low until this is over. Maybe catch up on those Z’s you missed last night. I'll be able to fight better if I don't have to worry about you getting hurt.”

Peter rubbed absently at his arms as Wade turned away and strode out of the room, Dom and Cable following behind. Weasel cupped his hands over his mouth, calling after, “I don’t do diapers, Wade. You can’t leave this infant here!”

Peter gave him a perturbed look, and Weasel heaved a sigh. He got to his feet and headed out the door. “Come on, then.”

“Where are we going?” Peter asked, following down the hall to a narrow staircase. 

“Wade crashes here when he can’t be fucked to walk the five blocks to his place.” He pushed open a door at the top of the stairs to expose a cramped apartment of peeling paint and shabby furniture. 

“You want me to just sit here by myself?” Peter dodged the baskets of clothes and perilously stacked towers of DVDs to stand in the middle of the room. “What the am I supposed to do?” 

“I don’t give a fuck--eat some stale ramen, peruse Wade’s porno collection if you're feeling brave, just stay out of the way.” Something of Peter’s concern for Wade must have shown on his face, because Weasel’s shoulders sagged. “Look, if the crowd at the bar sees your jailbait ass without Wade around, they’ll eat you right up. And then Wade will kick _my_ ass.”

“You really care about him,” Peter said.

Weasel gave him a derisive look that amounted to the word _duh_. “Wade might seem like a hardass, but he’s been hurt a lot. Once he’s done saving your life, all that hero worship you’re feeling is gonna fade fast, and you’ll go back to your little college friends and fancy midtown coffee shops with ridiculous names and Stark internships. So don’t go fucking with his head.”

Peter blinked at him, stomach flipping sickly. “I _wasn’t_, I--” 

“You might fool him, and yourself,” Weasel said, words dripping with scorn. “But you’re not fooling me.” He slammed the door behind him, and Peter just stood there for several seconds, fuming. 

Part of him wanted to storm after Weasel and tell him just how wrong he was. Wade wasn’t even _into_ him. He wanted Spider-Man, despite all the flirting and teasing which, as far as Peter could tell, was just par for the course with Wade. And even if Wade was, Peter wasn’t the sort of person to toy with someone’s emotions. Even if he was dealing with some confusing feelings himself.

But there were more important things right now than his ego and Weasel’s misconceptions. What the hell did he care what Weasel thought of him? It was easier to tell himself he didn’t than actually believe it, if the squirming feeling of guilt in his stomach was anything to go by. 

_He’s wrong,_ Peter repeated steadfastly to himself, as he made his way through the apartment, looking for a back way out. 

The bedroom window looked out over an alley, and the nearest building was an easy jump away. Between the lack of traffic and the short distance, Peter could easily cross it without attracting attention.

Peter stripped out of his clothing and carefully arranged it in the bed along with extra pillows and some of the clothing from the baskets to make it look more human shaped. It was a pretty miserable decoy, but Peter locked the door and honestly, he didn’t expect Weasel to care enough to check in on him.

Pulling the mask on and sliding up the window, Peter perched on the sill and surveyed the skyline. Wade and his crew had a bit of a head start, but they were likely traveling by cab. At this time of day, Peter might just beat them there.

**Author's Note:**

> Update as of August 2020. I am still working on this fic and will not abandon it, but real life has brought me down, between 2 deaths in the family in June, and then discovering my cat had cancer, doing a surgery, and then having it spread to her lungs, and having to put her to sleep last week. I want to write, but most days barely can get myself to eat properly or not just sleep for 18 hours. But I will be back, I promise. Thanks so much for your support and comments that help to cheer me up during a difficult time.
> 
> Total chapter count may increase. Time between chapter updates may fluctuate owing to real life circumstances.
> 
> Special thanks to [WaterMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/profile) and [actionpackedlips](https://archiveofourown.org/users/actionpackedlips/pseuds/actionpackedlips)  
for listening when I'm stuck and helping me work out issues with plot and characterisation so that I can keep this fic going smoothly, and just generally being encouraging. You guys rock!


End file.
